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IN UNFAMILIAR 
ENGLAND 



By the Same Author 



British Highways and Byways 
From a Motor Car 

WITH FORTY-EIGHT ILLUSTRATIONS 

Sixteen Reproductions in Color and Thirty-Two Duogravures 

Second Edition 

320 Pages, 8vo, Decorated Cloth, Gilt Top 

Price (Boxed), $3.00 

L. C PAGE & COMPANY 

BOSTON. MASS. 





In UnrAAiLiAR 

EnGLAHD 



A Record of a Seven ThouseuicI Mile Tour by Motor of the 

Unfrequented Nooks and Comers, and the Shrines of 

Especial Interest, in England; With Incursions 

into Scotland and Ireland. 



BY THOS. D. MURPHY 

AUTHOR OF "BRITISH HIGHWAYS AND BYWAYS FROM A MOTOR CAR. 



WITH SIXTEEN ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOR, REPRODUCED FROM ORIGINAL 

PAINTINGS BY EMINENT BRITISH ARTISTS, AND FORTV-EIGHT 

DUOGRAVURES FROM ENGLISH PHOTOGRAPHS; ALSO 

INDEXED MAPS COVERING ROUTES. 




BOSTON 

L. C. PAGE & COMPANY 

MDCCCCX 



-> 



.V^.'b'^ 



Copyright, 1910 
By L. C. Page & Company 

(incorporated) 



All rights reserved 



First Impression, January, 1910 



C CI. A 25646? 



TO MY WIFE 

THE CONSTANT 
COMPANION OF 
MY WANDERINGS 



PREFACE 



It may seem that there is little excuse for a new 
book on English travel, since works covering the 
beaten path in the British Isles fairly teem from the 
press. But as a record of pilgrimages to the unfamiliar 
shrines and to the odd corners all over the United 
Kingdom this book may have its value. My refer- 
ence to the tourist- frequented spots has been only in- 
cidental, and I think I can claim to have found much 
of interest not elsewhere described. And this I put 
forth as my chief excuse for adding one more to the 
already long list of British travel books. 

But in my illustrations I have another, and per- 
haps to many a better, excuse for my venture on such 
well-trodden ground. I believe that few books of 
travel have come from the press that can justly claim a 
higher rank in this particular. The sixteen color 
plates reproduce the work of some of the most noted 
contemporary artists, and the duogravures are the most 
perfect English photographs — no country on earth 
surpasses England in photography — perfectly repro- 
duced. 



I trust that these features may give a real value 
to the book and make it acceptable to the large and in- 
creasing number of those readers and travelers abroad 
who are interested in the Motherland. 

T. D. M. 



CONTENTS 



Pafir« 

I SOME NOOKS ABOUT LONDON 1 

II WANDERINGS IN EAST ANQLIA 14 

ni SOME MIDLAND NOOKS AND THE WASHING- 
TON COUNTRY 32 

rV MEANDERINGS FROM COVENTRY TO EXETER 48 

V RAMBLES IN THE WEST COUNTRY 68 

VI ODD CORNERS OF THE WELSH BORDER 85 

VII A WEEK IN SOUTH WALES 102 

Vin SOME NOOKS AND CORNERS 127 

rX THE BYRON COUNTRY 148 

X FROM YORKSHIRE COAST TO BARNARD CAS- 
TLE 160 

XI LAKELAND AND THE YORKSHIRE DALES 176 

XII SOME NORTH COUNTRY SHRINES 199 

XIII ACROSS THE TWEED 212 

XrV MORE YORKSHIRE WANDERINGS 238 

XV ROUND ABOUT WILTSHIRE 267 

XVI DORSET AND THE ISLE OF WIGHT 277 

XVII SOUTH ENGLAND NOOKS 298 

XVIII PROM DUBLIN TO CORK 326 

XrX THROUGH SOUTHERN IRELAND 338 

XX SOME ODDS AND ENDS 362 

XXI LUDLOW TOWN 379 

INDEX 391 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 



COLOR PLATES 

Page 
SULGRAVE MANOR, THE CRADLE OF THE WASHING- , 

TONS Frontispiece 

WARWICK CASTLE FROM THE AVON 1 

SULGRAVE CHURCH AND VILLAGE 40 

IN SUNNY DEVON 70 

KING ARTHUR'S CASTLE, OFF TINTAGEL HEAD, 

CORNWALL 74 

OFF THE COAST OF DEVON 76 

EVENING ON THE CORNISH COAST 82 

A WORCESTERSHIRE COMMON 136 

HADDON HALL FROM THE RIVER 146 

IN OLD WHITBY 168 

A SUSSEX HARVEST FIELD 306 

THE HOSPITAL, RYE 312 

ON THE DOWNS 322 

A GLIMPSE OF THE LOUGH, IRELAND 346 

ON THE RIVER LLEDll, WALES 368 

LUDLOW CASTLE FROM THE RIVER TEME 386 

DUOGRAVURES 

OLD MANOR HOUSE, BRENT ELEIGH 20 

A STREET CORNER, EARLS COLNE, ESSEX 28 

MARNEY TOWERS, ESSEX 30 

CROSS ROADS NEAR OUNDLB 34 

KIRBY HALL 38 

WASHINGTON BRASS, SULGRAVE CHURCH 42 

THE WASHINGTON CHURCH, GREAT BRINGTON 46 



LYGON ARMS, BROADWAY 54 

TAWSTOCK CHURCH, DEVONSHIRE 78 

BERKELEY CASTLE 86 

BISHOP'S PALACE, HEREFORD 92 

TONG VILLAGE, SHROPSHIRE 94 

BOSCOBEL HOUSE, SHROPSHIRE 96 

CAERPHILLY CASTLE, SOUTH WALES 108 

CARDIFF CASTLE 110 

NEATH ABBEY, SOUTH WALES 114 

ST. DAVID'S CATHEDRAL 120 

TOWN CROSS, STOCKS AND WHIPPING POST, RIPPLE. 132 

RUINS OP CHARTLEY CASTLE, DERBYSHIRE 140 

CHESTERFIELD CHURCH 144 

NEWSTEAD ABBEY 154 

WHITBY ABBEY AND CROSS 166 

RABY CASTLE 172 

HAWORTH CHURCH 196 

CASTLE HOWARD 200 

REMAINS OP GREAT ROMAN WALL NEAR HEXHAM. 208 

NAWORTH CASTLE 210 

TANTALLON CASTLE AND BASS ROCK 228 

CASTLE BOLTON, WENSLEYDALE, YORKSHIRE 240 

MIDDLEHAM CASTLE, WENSLEYDALE 244 

RUINS OP PONTEPRACT CASTLE 250 

LACOCK ABBEY 262 

BROMHAM CHURCH, BURIAL PLACE OF THOMAS 

MOORE 266 

CASTLE COMBE VILLAGE, WILTSHIRE 268 

CORPE VILLAGE AND CASTLE 280 

AN ISLE OP WIGHT ROAD 288 

THE TiiNNYSON HOME, FRESHWATER, ISLE OF 

WIGHT 294 

COTTAGE, FRESHWATER, ISLE OF WIGHT 296 

ABBEY CHURCH, ROMSEY 300 

COWDRAY CASTLE, NEAR MIDHURST 304 

THE "BLUE IDOL," PENN'S MEETING HOUSE, SUS- 
SEX 308 

KILKENNY CASTLE 328 

CASHEL CATHEDRAL, TIPPERARY 332 

HOLY CROSS ABBEY, TIPPERARY 334 



ANCIENT ORATORY, KILLALOB 35« 

WHITTINGTON CASTLE, SHROPSHIRE 370 

LUDLOW CASTLE; THE WALK BENEATH THE WALL. 380 
DOOR TO ROUND CHAPEL, LUDLOW CASTLE 384 



MAPS 



MAP OF ENGLAND AND WALES 390 

MAP OP SCOTLAND AND IRELAND 402 




WARWICK CASTLE FROM THE AVON. 
Original Painting by Daniel Sherrin. 



In Unfamiliar England 
I 

SOME NOOKS ABOUT LONDON 

When Washington Irving made his first jour- 
ney to England, he declared the three or four weeks 
on the ocean to be the best possible preparation for 
a visit to the mother country. The voyage, said he, 
w^as as a blank page in one's existence, and the mind, 
by its utter severance from the busy world, was best 
fitted to receive impressions of a new and strange 
environment. And it was no doubt so in the slow 
ocean voyages of olden time; but today it is more 
as if one stayed within his palatial hotel for a few 
days, at no time losing touch with the civilized world. 
Every day of our passage the engines of our ocean 
greyhound reeled off distances — five or six hundred 
nautical miles — that Irving's vessel would have re- 
quired nearly a week to cover, and daily the con- 
densed news of the world was flashed to us through 
the "viewless air." Of all our modern miracles, 
certainly none would have been more difficult to 
predict than this — how like a sheer impossibility it 
would have seemed! Indeed, to such an extent has 

1 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

modern science thrown its safeguards around the 
voyager that "those in peril on the sea" are rather 
less so than those on land, and the ocean liners make 
trips month after month and year after year without 
the loss of a single life. And with the disappear- 
ance of its mystery and terror, the sea has lost much 
of its romance. No longer does the bold buccaneer 
lie in wait for the treasure-laden galleons of Spam 
and the Netherlands; no longer may the picturesque 
pirate sail the seas unhindered in his quest for ill- 
gotten gold. Indeed, when one thinks of the cap- 
ital and equipment a modern pirate on the high seas 
would require, there is no wonder that the good old 
trade is obsolete. 

But the sea is still as beautiful in its thousand 
moods of clouds and sunshine, of storm and calm, 
as it ever was ere its distances were annihilated and 
its romance dispelled. Our voyage was nearly per- 
fect; the water was smooth and the days mild and 
clear. From sunrise to sunset the great ship plowed 
her way through a sea of pale emerald flecked with 
frosted silver, and at night she swept along beneath 
a starlit sky. So favorable was her progress that 
early on the sixth day she paused in Plymouth har- 
bor. 

If in Washington Irving's day the long sea voy- 
age was the best preparation for enjoying the beau- 
ties of England, it is hardly so now. Be that as it 



SOME NOOKS ABOUT LONDON 

may, there is possibly nothing that could make on ^ 
more keenly appreciate the joys of motoring than 
the run from Plymouth to London by the Great 
Western's "train de luxe." The grime and smoke 
that envelop everything about the train, the crash 
and shriek of the wheels, the trembling and groan- 
ing of the frail carriages hurled onward at a terrific 
speed, to say nothing of the never-to-be-forgotten 
service — does it deserve such a term — of the dining- 
car, will all seem like a nightmare when one glides 
along beneath the silvery English skies, through the 
untainted country air, and pauses for an excellent, 
cleanly served luncheon at some well-ordered 
wayside inn. 

London itself is so vast, and so crowded are 
its environs with places that may well engage the 
attention of the tourist, that it would be hard to 
guess how much time one might devote with pleas- 
ure and profit to the teeming circle within twenty- 
five miles of Charing Cross. Many of the most charm- 
ing spots about the metropolis have had scant men- 
tion in the literature of travel, and even now many 
of the ancient and picturesque villages are in process 
of metamorphosis. The steady encroachments of 
the great city have already transformed more than 
one retired hamlet into a suburban residence town, 
and historic landmarks have suffered not a little. 
The advent of the railroad, always hailed with joy 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

from a mere material standpoint, is often death to 
the atmosphere that attracts the painter and the poet. 
A run to Chorley Wood to visit the studio of a well- 
known English artist, one of whose pictures graces 
this book, brought to our minds with peculiar force 
the condition of things just outlined. 

Chorley Wood but recently was one of the 
quaintest and most unspoiled of the Hertfordshire 
villages. Here stands the old King farmhouse where 
in 1672 William Penn married Gulilema Springett, 
whose graces and perfections have been so dwelt 
upon by the chroniclers. And there are other old 
and interesting structures, but crowding them closely 
and elbowing them out of existence are the more 
modem villas of Londoners whom the railroad has 
brought within easy reach of this pleasant spot. 
Not all of the newer houses were constructed with 
the consummate taste of that of our artist friend, 
whose studio-residence seemed entirely at home 
among the quaint old houses of the towTi. As usual 
with English houses, the garden side was most at- 
tractive, and a wide veranda — not a common thing 
in England — fronted on the well-kept lawn. From 
this there was a splendid view of the distant Hert- 
fordshire landscape, which on this particular June 
day was glorious with such variations of green as 
can be seen only in England, broken here and there 
by the intense yellow of the gorse and fading 

4 



SOME NOOKS ABOUT LONDON 
away into a blue haze that half hid the forest-cov- 
ered hills in the distance. I could not help suggest- 
ing that this view itself would make a delightful pic- 
ture, but the artist, who is noted for his fondness for 
low tones, demurred — the gorse was too harsh and 
jarring. So, after all. Dame Nature isn't much of 
a colorist! She mingles the intensest greens and 
blues and dashes them with the fiercest of yellows! 

It is not strange that Hertfordshire is favored 
by the artists, especially those whose success has 
been such as to enable them to maintain country 
homes. I had the pleasure of calling on another suc- 
cessful young painter in the adjacent village of Har- 
penden and on inquiring for his studio we were given 
the unique direction to "follow the road along the 
i;ommon until you come to a new house that looks 
like an old one." And the description was apt, in- 
deed, for we did not see elsewhere the half-timber 
frame- work with herring-bone masonry, the studde J 
oak doors with monstrous, straggling wrought-iron 
hinges, the open beams, wide carved mantels, the 
mullioned windows with diamond panes set in iron 
casements — all reproduced with the perfect spirit 
of the Elizabethan builder. 

Near by is Rickmansworth, an ancient and yet 
unspoiled town where Penn lived for five years af- 
ter his marriage with "Guli,'* as she was called. 

These years were largely occupied in writing theo- 

5 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

logical works and in public religious disputations. 
In fact, no name is more identified with Hertford- 
shire than Penn's, its only rival being that of Fran- 
cis Bacon. In later years Penn removed to Sussex, 
v/here he had inherited an estate, but his final resting- 
place is at Jordans, Hertfordshire. 

We left Chorley Wood through meandering 
byways, and threading our way among the Burn- 
ham beeches, soon came into the main Oxford road. 
It would be difficult, indeed, to describe the sylvan 
loveliness of the country through which we passed. 
The great trees overarched the narrow winding lanes, 
which v/ere bordered with tall ferns in places, and 
often a clear rivulet ran alongside. The somber 
yew, the stately oak and the graceful birches were 
interspersed here with a bit of lawn and there with 
a tangle of flowering shrubs. Out of this we came 
into the main road, broad and white, and teeming 
with vehicles — the first hint that London with its 
ceaseless turmoil is only twenty miles away. 

Farther on the road toward the city we came to 
Uxbridge, another town where the new is crowding 
the old. Fortunately, the famous Treaty Inn has 
escaped. Here the emissaries of Charles I. met the 
representatives of Parliament in a vain effort to com- 
promise the dispute that had plunged the nation into 
civil war. The room where the commissioners m.et, 
with its paneling reaching to the ceiling and its 

6 



SOME NOOKS ABOUT LONDON 

wealth of antique carving, is little changed, though 
it has been divided by a partition into a writing- and 
a dining-room. The excellent luncheon served was 
one of the surprises often met in these dilapidated 
and often unprepossessing old hostelries. In the 
time of the Parliamentary unpleasantness, this hot'il 
was known as the "Crown,'* and among its relics 
is an immense crown of solid oak weighing two or 
three hundred pounds, which was engaging the at- 
tention of an English party, one of whom ironically 
asked if this were the identical crovm worn by 
Charles at the council. "Indeed it was," replied 
another humorist in the party, "and thus originated 
the expression, *Uneasy lies the head which wears 



a crown.' " 



Near Uxbridge, but lying a quarter of a mile 
off the main road, is the village of Denham. Here 
we came one fine Sunday afternoon, following the 
recommendation of an English friend. The village 
has no historic attraction and no famous man's name 
has ever been associated with it. Neither has it 
mention in the books. Yet Denham is a delight — a 
sequestered little place nestling under a group of 
towering trees just far enough from the highroad to 
miss the dust and noise. The ancient half-timbered 
houses which border the street are redolent with 
the spirit of old-time England. The fine unrestored 
old church stands at the head of the street and the 

7 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

churchyard about it shows evidence of painstaking 
care. What a delight, it seemed to us, it would be 
to live in Denham — at least in English June time. 
One would have rural quiet, even somnolence, and 
might lie for hours on the turf under the great trees, 
meditating and looking at the sky; and if he should 
weary of so secluded and eventless a life, London, 
with all its mystery and charm, is less than an hour 
away — London, the most fascinating city in the 
world, despite its preponderance of bad weather and 
its world-famed fogs. 

Charles Lamb delighted in Hertfordshire and 
spent much of his time at the Four Swans Inn at 
Waltham, a quaint old building just opposite Wal- 
tham Cross. We made several pilgrimages here; 
nor did the abbey grow less interesting upon re- 
peated visits. From here it is only a little distance 
to St. Albans, a city proud of its great cathedral, 
whose hoary tower dominates the town. Quite dif- 
ferent from the ordinary caretaker was the young 
clergyman, whose refined, classic face bespoke 
his intelligence and who showed us every detail of 
the great church, dwelling upon its many ancient 
and often unique features. Nor did he omit to call 
our attention to an epitaph of a very frank citizen 
of St. Albans, who, after sleeping three hundred 
years under the marble slab in the nave, still com- 
plains of his unhappy fate: 

8 



SOME NOOKS ABOUT LONDON 

"Great was my grief — I could not rest; 

God called me hence — He thought it best. 

Unhappy marriage was my fate — 

I did repent when *twas too late." 

St. Albans is rich in antiquities. Indeed, you 
can still trace fragments of the Roman wall which 
surrounded the place when Albanus met his fate, 
and down near the river at the foot of cathedral 
hill is another "oldest house" in England. It is a 
quaint round structure, built, they say, more than 
a thousand years ago as a fishing-lodge for the 
monks, for it stands hard by a lakelike dam in the 
river. But today it has degenerated into a public 
house, and the broad-shouldered, black-bearded 
Irishman who kept the bar was well posted on St. 
Albans' antiquities. He showed us the little house 
and garden and pointed out the Roman earthworks. 
Nor did he seem in the least disappointed that our 
patronage was limited to a few post card pictures, 
and, strange to say, he declined a gratuity. We re- 
turned to the George Inn, which enjoyed great pros- 
perity in the coaching days, being on the main road 
to Holyhead. For four hundred years it had cheered 
the passing guest and its excellent dinner belied its 
generally dilapidated appearance. Its proprietors 
were just removing to the new and pretentious Red 
Lion over the way, but we did not learn whethei 
this meant the final abandonment of the George. 

9 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

It was with some difficulty that we located 
Rye House, v/hich we supposed to be within Brox- 
borne, but which really lies on a byroad two or 
three miles away. Though in a m.ore or less se- 
cluded location, it is apparently the goal of innum- 
erable pilgrims on gala days in the summer, espe- 
cially Sundays. On the day of our arrival, the 
grounds were quite deserted and an appropriate 
quietude hovered over the old manor. Alas, though, 
we found it shorn of much of its picturesqueness, for 
it had fallen into the clutches of a large brewer, who 
was using it as an adjunct to dispose of his product — 
in fact, the mansion and its beautiful grounds have 
become little else than a summer beer garden. 

Rye House figures in history as the seat of a 
plot, which contemporaries describe as "horrid,** 
to kill King Charles 11. as he returned from a race 
meeting in Newmarket in 1683. Unfortunately, 
perhaps, the plot failed, owing to the king's return 
a week earlier than expected, and there was no tele- 
phone to advise the Rye House assassins of the 
change of plan. A penny guide-book gives what 
purports to be the history of the crim.e, though I 
fear most of the romantic features are mythical. It 
relates how Ruth, the daughter of Rumsey, who 
devised the plot, listened at the door and learned 
the plan of the conspirators. Between her father and 
the king this devoted maiden never hesitated a miii- 

10 



SOME NOOKS ABOUT LONDON 

ute, but hustled her lover away to Newmarket to 
warn Charles of his impending danger. After great 
difficulty the youth gained an audience with the 
king, and it is recorded that Charles only laughed 
at his story. Here, at least, is a touch of proba- 
bility — Charles laughed at everything. Finding 
himself discredited, the lover became desperate; in 
his loyal zeal "he secretly set fire to the house in 
which the king resided in two or three places.*' 
Our chronicler, having thus unceremoniously ousted 
his royal majesty from his comfortable quarters, has 
him proceed "in disguise*' to London, stopping at 
Rye House, where he confronted and confounded 
his enemies and bestowed "substantial marks of his 
favor** upon Ruth Rumsey and her lover. What 
these substantial marks were our chronicler declar- 
eth not — better left to the imagination, anyway, for 
it would be far more in keeping with the character 
of Charles to say that he promised substantial marks 
of his favor and forgot all about it. 

So much for Rye House legend. The facts 
are that the conspirators v/ere apprehended and exe- 
cuted, and quite in accordance v.ith his usual prac- 
tices, the king made the circumstance an excuse for 
the rem.oval of numerous of his enemies among the 
nobility who had nothing whatever to do with the 
plot. However, Rye House is quiet enough today 
and its only plots are the innocuous ones hatched 

11 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENaLAND 

over pots of beer in the minds of the trippers who 
throng it on Sundays and hoHdays. 

The conspirators did not meet at the inn 
itself, but in the castellated manor house just 
across the byroad. Of this only a fragment re- 
mains, but fortunately this fragment contains the 
"conspirators* room,'* as might be expected. The 
enterprising brewer has put this in good repair and 
has placed on view a number of relics of greater or 
less degree of merit. Among these is a pair of stu- 
pendous jack-boots, which our voluble guide assured 
us were the **hidentical boots what Holiver Crom- 
well wore** during a battle in which, as usual, he 
worsted the Royalists; but the placard above the 
relics was more modest in its claims, for it only stated 
that the boots were found on the battlefield. How- 
ever, if the redoubtable "Holiver** wore these boots 
or anything like unto them when he met the enemy, 
one phase of his career may be accounted for — why 
he never ran away. Among the other curiosities 
with a real interest is the "Great Bed of Ware,** so 
famous in its day that Shakespeare immortalized it 
in his "Twelfth Night.'* It is certainly a marvelous 
creation, some sixteen feet square, with enormous 
carved posts supporting an imposing canopy. Our 
guide asserted that in its early days no fewer than 
twenty-four men had slept in it at one time, and re- 
cited, in painful detail, the history of the bed. We 

12 



SOME NOOKS ABOUT LONDON 

inconsiderately interrupted him in the midst of his 
declamation and he had to start all over again, to 
his manifest annoyance. Even then he failed to fin- 
ish, for the shadow^s were lengthening, and termi- 
nating his flow of eloquence with a shilling or two, 
we were soon speeding swiftly over the beautiful 
Chigwell road to London. 



13 



II 

WANDERINGS IN EAST ANGLIA 

Despite the fascination that London always 
has and the fact that one could scarcely exhaust her 
attractions in years, it was with impatience that we 
endured the delay imposed by business matters and 
preparations for a period of two months or more 
on the road. We were impatient, surely, or we 
should hardly have left our hotel at six o'clock in 
the evening, in the face of a driving rain. Ordinar- 
ily, two or three hours would have brought us to 
Cambridge, only fifty miles away; but we could 
not depend on this with the caution necessary on the 
slippery streets in getting out of London. 

Once clear of the city there was little to ham- 
per us on the fine Cambridge road and we counted 
on easily reaching the university town before lamp- 
lighting. The rain had nearly ceased, but the down- 
pour had been tremendous, and in three successive 
valleys we forded floods, each one deeper than the 
preceding. Almost before we knew it — for in the 
gas lamps' glare the rain-soaked road looked little 
different from the yellow water — we were axle-deep 
in a fourth torrent and were deluged with a dirty 

14 



WANDERINGS IN EAST ANGLIA 

spray from the engine fly-wheel. Manifestly we 
were not to reach Cambridge that night and we re- 
luctantly turned about to seek shelter somewhere 
else. 

It was only a little way to the village of Bun- 
tingford, v/here we found clean though very unpre- 
tentious and not altogether comfortable accommoda- 
tions at the George, a rambling old relic of coaching 
days. Our late dinner was fair and our rooms good- 
sized and neat, though dimly lit with tallow candles; 
but the ancient feather beds, our greatest terror in 
the smaller and a few of the larger towns, caused a 
well-nigh sleepless night. Morning revealed a lit- 
tle straggling gray-stone and slate village, unchanged 
to all appearances from the days of the coach-and- 
four. Our inn was a weather-beaten structure, and 
its facilities for dispensing liquor appeared by odds 
greater than its accommodation for non-bibulous 
travelers. Still, it v/as clean and homelike, in spots 
at least, and our hostess, who personally looked af- 
ter our needs, was all kindness and sympathetic at- 
tention. Altogether, we had little complaint to lodge 
against the George, though greatly different from 
the really admirable University Arms at Cambridge, 
where we had planned to stop. We were early on 
the road, from which nearly all trace of the floods 
of the previous evening had vanished, and before 

long we were threading the familiar streets of Cam- 

15 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

bridge, where everything appeared to be in a bustle 
of preparation — at least so far as such a state of af- 
fairs could be in a staid English town — for the clos- 
ing of the University year on the following week. 

There is no finer road in England than that 
leading from Cambridge to Newmarket. It is nearly 
level, and having been newly surfaced with yellow 
gravel, it stretches before us like a long golden 
ribbon in the sunshine. It leads through wide mea- 
dow-lands and at times runs straight away as an ar- 
row's flight — truly a tempting highway for the light- 
footed motor car. 

Beyond Newmarket the road to Bury St. Ed- 
munds is quite as fine, and no doubt this splendid 
highway is largely responsible for the intense anti- 
pathy to the motor car in the former town. How- 
ever, one would hardly expect Newmarket to be 
wildly enthusiastic over the horseless carriage, for 
this ancient burg contests with Epsom for the po- 
sition of chief horse-racing tovm in England — a 
proud distinction it had held for some centuries be- 
fore the motor snorted through its streets. Another 
cause for the grief of the townsmen was the com- 
plaint of owners of high-bred horses that the motors 
jarred upon the nerves of the spirited animals to 
their great detriment, and naturally enough the citi- 
zens sympathized with their patron saint, the horse, 
against his petrol-driven rival. And thus it was that 

16 



WANDERINGS IN EAST ANQLIA 
when we entered Newmarket we were met by the 
Motor Union scout, who cautioned us to observe 
rigidly the ten-mile limit or we would more than 
likely share the fate of a half dozen of our brethren 
the day before — a journey to police headquarters. 
Two months afterwards, when we again passed 
through the town, the war was still on, and it was 
some months later that I read in the daily papers 
that after great bitterness on both sides a truce had 
finally been reached. 

Despite its unfriendliness toward our ilk, we 
must admit that Newmarket is quite a modern-look- 
ing town, clean and attractive, with many fine build- 
ings and excellent hotels. It lies in the midst of 
wide meadow-lands, much used for horseback 
sports such as polo and racing. Royal visits, so dear 
to the average Britisher, are a frequent event, and 
here it is that the King, usually in some new style 
of hat or cut of trousers, appears, to set the world of 
fashion agog. 

Well clear of Newmarket and its birds of prey, 
the most glorious of roads brought us quickly into 
the fine old town of Bury St. Edmunds — and none 
other in East Anglia has been celebrated by greater 
pens; for Charles Dickens and Thomas Carlyle so- 
journed at Bury and left us vigorous records of 
their impressions. The former set them down in 

the story of the trials and wanderings of Mr. Pick- 

17 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

wick, and that honest old gentleman's comment on 
the town and its famous Angel Inn was altogether 
commendatory. It was later — in 1 878 — when Car- 
lyle visited Bury, and the description he gave it then 
is quite applicable today. He saw "a prosperous, 
brisk town looking out right pleasantly from the hill- 
slope toward the rising sun, and on the eastern edge 
still runs, long, black and massive, a maze of monas- 
tic ruins." The "Angel" we found still deserving 
of the encomiums bestowed by Mr. Pickwick, a de- 
lightfully clean and quiet old inn fronting directly on 
the abbey gardens and presided over by a suave and 
very accommodating landlord. We were given 
spacious and well-lighted quarters — ^we may dwell 
on "well-lighted," since we could hardly apply this 
description, so far as artificial light is concerned, to 
more than two or three of the hundreds of hotels we 
visited. 

The most impressive feature of the abbey ruin 
is the massive square tower of the gateway, which 
stands intact, its ancient state almost undiminished. 
The abbey has a long history, for Edmund, King 
of East Anglia, was slain near at hand by the Danes 
in 870 — legend says because he refused to abjure 
Christianity, and it was this that won his canoniza- 
tion as St. Edmund. To the time of the Dissolu- 
tion the abbey was by far the greatest in East Ang- 
lia, and its ruins, though fragmentary, are quite suf- 

18 



WANDERINGS IN EAST ANGLIA 

ficient to indicate its once vast extent. Near by stand 
the churches of St. James and St. Mary's, both 
rather ill-proportioned for lack of towers — a deficien- 
cy due, it is said, to the old-time abbots' fear that 
if these churches should be thus ornamented they 
would overshadow the abbey church, now entirely 
vanished. Good authorities state that St. Mary's 
has the finest open roof in England. It is supported 
on slender columns and covers a well-proportioned 
nave. In the church is the tomb of Mary Tudor, 
sister of Henry VIII. and wife first of Louis XII. of 
France and afterwards of Charles Brandon, Duke 
of Suffolk. 

There is not much of historic interest in Bury 
aside from its abbey and churches. One may oc- 
cupy a pleasant hour or two in walking about the 
town, which, despite its antiquity, has a prosperous 
and up-to-date appearance. Twice in the course of 
our rambles we visited it and on both occasions our 
route led to Ipswich, though over different roads — 
first due south through Lavenham and Hadleigh and 
later by the way of Stowmarket. The former route 
is mainly through the retired Suffolk byways, not 
in the best condition, but bordered by charming 
country. Nowhere did we see a more delightful 
brick-and-timber house than the old manor at Brent 
Eleigh, though it has degenerated into a mere farm 

tenement rather better cared for than usual. What a 

19 



IN UNB^AMILIAR ENGLAND 

W'Orld of quaint and ancient beauty there is in its 
many red-tiled gables surmounted by great clustered 
chimneys, its double mullioned windows and its 
black-oak and red-brick v/alls, splashed here and 
there with clinging m.asses of ivy. Our illustration 
only half tells the story, for it does not give the color 
or the most picturesque view of the house. We also 
came across Bildeston, a little out-of-the-way ham- 
let lost in the hills, v/hich has many old houses not 
as yet fallen into the clutches of the restorer. This 
is also true of Hadleigh, a little farther on the road, 
which is rich in seventeenth century houses v/ith 
fronts of ornamental plaster and carved oaken beams. 
Among the very oddest of these is the guildhall, 
standing quite apart in a graveyard thickly set with 
weather-worn headstones. 

We reached Ipswich after a half day of slow 
progress, for signboards v/ere often missing and the 
winding lanes bordered by high hedges made cau- 
tious driving imperative. Later we followed the 
road by Stowm.arket, a much easier though less in- 
teresting route. Stowm.arket, aside from its old- 
world streets and its huge church with an odd v/ood- 
en spire, had nothing to detain us, for one would 
hardly care to linger at the gun-cotton factory, which 
is the most distinctive feature of the village. 

Little provision v/as made by the burghers who 
centuries ago platted the streets of Ipswich, for the 

20 



WANDERINGS IN EAST ANGLIA 

coming of the motor or electric tram, and it was with 
difficulty that our car was able to thread its way 
through the narrow, crowded main street. It goes 
without saying that the objective of the pilgrim on 
entering the city will be the Great White 
Horse, the scene of some of Mr, Pickv/ick's 
most noted adventures, nor are we deterred by 
any recollection of his decidedly unpleasant ex- 
periences with the inn people. Like many 
of the incidents in his v/ritings, it v/as the per- 
sonal experience of Dickens that called forth the 
rather uncomplimentary remarks set down against the 
ancient hostelry ; but the very fact that Charles Dick- 
ens had stopped there and written — no matter what 
— of the Great White Horse — is that not enough? 
And we could not forget if v/e wished that an ex- 
act replica of the Great White Horse was exhibited 
at the Chicago Fair as typical of the old-time Eng- 
lish inn, for the fact is blazoned forth by a large 
placard in the hall. We were offered the spacious 
room, Vvith its imposing, tall-posted beds, tradition- 
ally occupied by Mr. Pickwick. The Great White 
Florse, like many other institutions that felt the 
scourge of the caustic pen of Dickens, has changed; 
no better ordered, more comfortable and attentive 
hostelry did we find elsewhere, and v/e felt that it 
had outlived the bad reputation the great author gave 
it, even as America lived down the bitter scourging 

21 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

of the "American Notes," beneath which our fel- 
low-countrymen writhed at the time. And perhaps 
we still think of the "Notes'* and "Martin Chuzzle- 
wit" with a twinge of bitterness, forgetting that the 
ridicule which Dickens indulged in concerning 
America was hardly comparable to the sharp casti- 
gations he administered to his own countrymen. His 
work was productive of good in both countries, and 
most of the evils he so scathingly rebuked no longer 
exist. 

Ipswich, though a city of some seventy thous- 
and people and of considerable activity, is by no 
means shorn of its old-time interest and picturesque- 
ness. There are many crooked old-world streets 
where the soft, time-mellowed tones of the gray walls 
and antique gables are diversified by carved beams, 
plaster fronts and diamond-paned windows, each of 
which has its box of brightly colored flowers. The 
most notable of the old houses and one of the noblest 
specimens of Tudor architecture in the Kingdom 
is "Ye Ancient House,'* with its odd dormer win- 
dows and richly decorated plaster front, situated near 
the Butter Market. The interior, now occupied by 
a bookshop and public library, is as unique and 
pleasing as the outside. There are paneled rooms, 
odd passages and corners, and a very quaint though 
rude chapel directly beneath the heavy arched tim- 
ber roof. Of course such a striking old house must 

22 



WANDERINGS IN EAST ANGLIA 

have its legend of royalty, and tradition has it that 
Charles !I. was hidden in the chapel when seeking 
passage to France after the battle of Worcester. 

But the charm of Ipswich may serve no longer 
as an excuse to linger. We bid regretful farewell 
to the Great White Horse and are soon following 
the King's highway to the northward. It was a low- 
ering day, with frequent dashes of rain and glints of 
sun breaking from a sky as blue as one may see in our 
own prairie states in June time. The road is wind- 
ing and hilly for East Anglia, which is so generally 
level, but it passes through a fine country with many 
retired, old-world villages. Lowestoft we find anoth- 
er of the numerous seaside resorts that dot the south- 
eastern coast. It has figured little in history and 
doubtless the most notable event in its career was 
its prompt surrender to Colonel Cromwell in 1642. 

It was gray and chilly when we entered Great 
Yarmouth, where we found a leaden-colored ocean 
thundering on the finest beach in the Kingdom. 
Yarmouth is popular as a resort town, though more 
widely known for its fisheries. Its characteristic fea- 
ture is its "rows,** a series of very narrow alleys, 
mostly bordered with shops and opening into the 
main street, forming, as Dickens puts it, "one vast 
gridiron of which the bars are represented by the 
rows.'* And one will notice that Dickens is much 
in evidence in East Anglia. Who can ever forget 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

the freshness of the description of Yarmouth in "Dav- 
id Copperfield" ? The hotels, as might be expected, 
are many, and some of them excellent; nowhere did 
we have better service than at the Victoria, though 
cheapness is not one of its attractions. 

Historic ruins, as a rule, are now carefully 
maintained in England and often made a feature of 
parks and pleasure grounds. But there are excep- 
tions, where the onslaughts of decay are not with- 
stood and where, unhindered, green ruin creeps 
steadily on. Such v/e found Caister Castle, four 
m.iles to the north of Yarmouth. We were attracted 
by its imposing appearance at some distance from 
the main road, and the byway into which we turned 
led into an ill-kept farmyard. Here stands the im- 
pressive ruin, with the stagnant waters of its old-time 
m.oat still surrounding the towering keep and shat- 
tered walls. It was quite deserted, apparently serv- 
ing the neighboring farmer as a hen-roost. We 
learned little of its history, but the mystery, due to 
our very ignorance, together with the sad abandon 
of Caister Castle, makes it appeal to our imagination 
more strongly than many a well-cared-for ruin whose 
story has become commonplace. 

A broad, level road leads to Norwich and we 
ran through the flat fen country, dotted here and 
there with the Norfolk Broads. These pretty inland 
lakes lay dull and motionless under a leaden sky, but 

24 



WANDERINGS IN EAST ANGLIA 

we could imagine them very picturesque on bright 
days, rippling in the sun and gleaming with white 
sails. The hour was late, but our flight was a rapid 
one, soon bringing us to the East Anglian metropolis, 
where v/e forthwith sought the Maid's Head Hotel. 

On the following morning we set out to ex- 
plore the northern coast of Norfolk and our route led 
us through many byways and over much bad road. 
The day was clear and cool and the fine level coun- 
try was in the full glory of June verdure. Every- 
thing seemed to indicate that the East Anglian farm- 
er is contented and prosperous in the small way that 
prosperity comes to the common people of England. 
The countryside had a well-groomed appearance and 
the houses were better than the average. We pro- 
ceeded almost due north to Mundesley, a mean, 
bleak little coast town with a single crooked street, 
its straggling cottages contrasting sharply with the 
palatial hotel in the midst of lawns and gardens on 
the hill overlooking the sea. 

Eastward from Mundesley we ran directly 
along the ocean, which is visible most of the time; 
the road is stony and steep in places — altogether the 
worst we had yet traversed. The coast country is 
decidedly different from the fertile and pleasant fields 
of the interior. It is bleak and drab-colored; there 
are vast stretches of sand dunes bordered with stony 
hills whose dull colorings are relieved by patches of 

25 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

yellow gorse and groups of stunted trees. The villa- 
ges are in keeping with the country. The houses 
are of gray stone and broken flints and roofed with 
slate or dull-red tiles; the lines are square and harsh 
and there are no touches of ornament. Even the 
numerous churches partake of these characteristics; 
they are huge in bulk, with little or no attempt at 
artistic effect, often crowning some hilltop and look- 
ing as if they had defied the wild sea winds for ages. 
One we especially noted, standing quite apart on a 
hill overlooking the ocean — a vast weather-worn 
church with a square-topped tower in front and a 
queer little minaret to the rear — altogether an im- 
posing and unusual structure. It completely domi- 
nates the poverty-stricken country and the mean little 
villages, the nearest of which is a half-mile away. 

The principal resource of the towns of the north 
Norfolk coast is resort hotels and boarding-houses. 
We saw them without number at Mundesley, Hun- 
stanton, Cromer, Well-Next-the-Sea, and at solitary 
points along the road. The fine beach in many 
places, the rough but picturesque country and the 
unusual quiet of the surroundings no doubt prove at- 
tractive to many seeking rest. At Wells-Next-the- 
Sea we were glad indeed to forsake the wretched 
coast road for the broad white highway that leads 
by the way of Fakenham to Norwich. 

A few miles out of Norwich on the Newmar- 
26 



WANDERINGS IN EAST ANGLIA 

ket road is Wymondham, noted for its odd timber 
cross and its ancient priory church with octagonal 
towers, which give it, from a distance, a rather un- 
churchlike appearance. The extent of the ruins still 
remaining is sufficient evidence that at one time Wy- 
mondham Priory was of no little importance. Most 
remarkable is the open roof, the oaken timbers of 
which were removed at the Dissolution, and after 
being stored away for ages, were again put in place 
at the recent restoration. The caretaker showed us 
about with the pride so common to his calling; but 
he heaved a sigh as he pointed out many costly fea- 
tures of restoration, such as the great screen, the mas- 
sive bronze chandeliers and many elaborate carvings 
and furnishings. 

"Ah, sir," he said, "these were all donated by 
the late vicar; he carried out and paid for a large 
part of the restoration — but he's gone now!" 

"Dead?" we sympathetically asked. 

"No, indeed! It was all the fault of his land- 
lady, who became displeased with him somehow and 
gave him notice." 

"Trouble about the rent?" we suggested. 

"Not a bit of it," was the indignant reply. "The 
rent was nothing to him. He is the youngest broth- 
er of the Duke of W , and is very wealthy, with 

a large following. There is only one house to let 

in the parish that could accommodate him at all; 

27 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

and so he had to leave; yes, he had to leave, foif 
one day he says to me, 'Did you ever hear of a 
minister getting the sack?' And he told me how 
badly his landlady had treated him and that he had 
to go. It was a sad day for Wymondham, sir. He 
had spent ten times his salary on the church and 
there were m.any other things he was about to do." 

"How much is the salary?" we asked. 

"Six hundred pounds. It is a large parish, 
covering thirty-five square miles." 

We gave the old man his expected fee and 
thought it strange to learn of a minister who had 
restored a great church from his private fortune and 
then had to give up his charge because there was only 
one available house to accom.modate him and he 
couldn't have that. Surely the captious landlady 
must be execrated by the good m.embers of the 
Priory Church of Wymondham. 

It may seem a far cry from Wymondham, with 
its ecclesiastical traditions, to Thetford, the birth- 
place of that arch-heretic, Thom.as Paine; yet it Is 
only a few miles over the finest of roads. The vil- 
lage still preserves its old-world atmosphere and 
the house where Paine v/as born still stands, and is 
frequented, we learned, by many pilgrims. The 
old Bell Inn, the oddest of hostelries, looked cozy 
and restful, though we did not seek its hospitality. 
We hastened onward, leaving the NeV'/m.arket high- 

28 



WANDERINGS IN EAST ANGLIA 

way for Mildenhall, a quiet, unprogressive little vil- 
lage with an interesting manor house. This we did 
not see after all for it chanced that it was closed dur- 
ing preparations for an open-air Shakespearean play 
in the park that afternoon. We paused in the mar- 
ket square and were accosted by a friendly disposed 
native who thought us at a loss for the road. We 
thanked him and asked him what there might be 
of interest in Mildenhall. He scratched his head 
reflectively and finally said: 

"Nothin, sir! Hi 'ave lived in Mildenhall for 
forty years and never sav/ anything of hinterest." 

Discouraging, indeed! but we dissented, for 
there is much in the little town to please one in 
whom familiarity has not bred contempt. The huge, 
rambling Bell Inn seemed wonderfully attractive, 
though quite out of proportion to the village at pres- 
ent. Facing the inn is the church, remarkable for 
its Early English windows and fine open hammer- 
beam, carved-oak roof, supported from corbels of 
angel figures with extended wings. Quite as unus- 
ual is the hexagonal market cross, built of heavy oak 
timbers, gracefully carved, which support the leaden 
roof. Besides these ancient landmarks, there is 
m.uch else pleasing in Mildenhall. The thatched 
cottages, brilliant flower gardens and narrow streets, 
all combine to make it a snug, charming place where 

one might quite forget the workaday world without. 

29 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

Later in our wanderings we made another in- 
cursion into East Anglia, and retraced our route over 
many of its fine highways. We paused at Colches- 
ter and sought out some of the odd corners we missed 
before. On leaving the old city we wandered from 
the London road into quiet byways in search of 
Layer Marney, of whose stupendous ruined towers 
we had read years ago. After no end of inquiry, 
we came in sight of these, only to learn that the ruin 
had been incorporated into a modern mansion by a 
London gentleman and was no longer accessible to 
visitors. Still, we were able to come quite close and 
found work still in progress — a number of men lay- 
ing out formal gardens about the house. The inter- 
est centers in the gate towers built four hundred 
years ago by Lord Marney, who planned to erect 
a mansion to correspond with his exalted station. 
But his unfinished work stands as a monument to his 
blighted hopes, for he died before his task was well 
begun and his only son followed him a year later. 
The structure is strikingly original in style; the en- 
trance flanked by great octagonal towers eight stor- 
ies high, with two immense windows — a network of 
stone muUions — just above the gateway. It was one 
of the earliest buildings since Roman times to be con- 
structed of brick, and most unusual are the terra cotta 
moldings, which have a classic touch, due to Italian 

workmen brought to England by Lord Marney. 

80 




MARNEY TOWERS, ESSEX. 



WANDERINGS IN EAST ANGLIA 

The little church near by, of earlier date than 
the towers, is also built of brick and has so far es- 
caped the ravages of the restorer. It has three black 
marble tombs of old-time Marneys and one of these 
must be older than the church, for it bears the mail- 
clad effigy of a crusader who died in 1414. The 
interior has scarcely been altered in the four hundred 
years of its existence; and we hardly saw another to 
match it in genuine spirit of the olden time. The 
roof of the nave had been repaired out of sheer ne- 
cessity, but the dark, sagging beams of the chapel had 
never been molested. Over the door a black letter 
inscription, with initial and decorations in still bril- 
liant red, is devoted to a scathing denunciation of 
**ye riche," so fierce as to seem almost modern. Per- 
haps the Marneys viewed it with the more compla- 
cency from the fact that their wordly possessions 
hardly accorded with their high station. One of the 
oddest features of the interior is the carved oaken ef- 
figies of four little monkeys perched on tall posts at 
either end of the family pews, and an ape is shown 
on the Marney arms. All because, tradition de- 
clares, a pet monkey snatched a prehistoric Marney 
while an infant from a burning mansion and lost its 
life to save the child. 



SI 



Ill 

SOME MIDLAND NOOKS AND THE WASHINGTON 
COUNTRY 

It was not easy to get rooms at the University 
Arms, even though we had applied the week be- 
fore. It was the close of the university year, for 
which event, the manageress assured us, many peo- 
ple had engaged rooms a full year in advance. We 
were late applicants, to be sure. However, we had 
the advantage of a previous acquaintance — a thing 
that counts for much in the English hotel — and, since 
nowhere else would do, we were soon comfortably 
established at the University Arms. 

A stop of a day or two gives us the oppor- 
tunity of seeing much of the gala life of the town, 
including the hotly contested boat races on the Cam. 
There are many events not directly connected with 
the university, among them the cart-horse parade, 
which includes hundreds of gaily decked work- 
horses, splendid fellows, and it is doubtful if any 
American town of twice the size of Cambridge 
could make anything like such a showing, all points 
of equine excellence considered. One sees very few 
poor-looking horses in England, anyway — outside of 

82 



MIDLAND NOOKS AND WASHINGTON COUNTRY 

London. But what have we to do with horses? 
We are again on the road at the earliest oppor- 
tunity, following the splendid highway to Hunting- 
don. The countryside through which we pass is 
crowded with memories of the Great Protector, but 
we shall give it no place in this chronicle of un- 
familiar England. 

The old Bell Inn at Stilton, on the Great 
North Road fourteen miles above Huntingdon, will 
arrest the attention of any one who has learned to 
discriminate. It is a relic of the time when this road 
was one of the busiest in all England — the coaching 
traffic between London, York and Edinburgh ply- 
ing over it. The inn fronts directly on the street — a 
long, rambling building, with many gables, stone- 
mullioned windows and huge, square, clustered chim- 
neys. It is built of sandstone, weatherworn to a soft, 
yellowish brown, and once rich in mouldings and 
carvings which are now barely discernible. Now 
only about half of the house is occupied and the 
stables have fallen in ruin. The village of Stilton 
is one of the sleepiest and most rural type. What a 
contrast the good old days must have presented when 
six and thirty coaches-and-four pulled up daily at 
the Bell and its hostlers led nearly one hundred 
horses to its capacious stables! 

We savv^ much of rural England in threading 
our way from Stilton through a maze of narrow by- 

33 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

roads to Oundle, which caught our eye as one of 
the quaintest of the old-world inland villages. Many 
are the pleasant vistas down its streets, each with 
its array of buildings in soft-gray and red tones, the 
sagging roofs surmounted by odd gables and huge 
chimneys. But most interesting are the old inns, the 
Turk's Head and the Talbot. The first is an im- 
posing Jacobean structure with many gables and 
deep-set stone-muUioned windows. The Talbot 
is quite as fine in exterior, and though we could 
not remain as guests, the landlord apparently took 
pleasure in showing us about, manifesting a genuine 
pride in his establishment, which was further evi- 
denced by its well-kept appearance. Even the 
court was flower-bordered and there was a flourish- 
ing greenhoiise. Inside there are rooms with much 
antique paneling and solid oaken beams which sup- 
port the ceilings. But most notable are the relics 
of Fotheringhay Castle incorporated into the Talbot. 
The winding black-oak staircase is the one which 
Mary descended on the mournful morning of her 
execution, and among the mullioned casement win- 
dows are doubtless some through which the fair cap- 
tive often gazed during the long, weary days of her 
imprisonment. 

There are few places in the average village 
where the tourist can gain local information so easily 
as at a picture postcard shop. The keeper is sure 

34 



MIDLAISTD NOOKS AND WASHINGTON COUNTRY 

to call your attention to everything of interest and is 
equally sure to be well posted on the history and tra- 
ditions of the locality. Such a shop we found at 
Oundle, and the pictures of Deane House and 
Church and Kirby Hall soon engaged our attention. 
**Do not miss them," said the genial shopkeeper, and 
he gave us accurate directions as to the roads — not 
easy to follow from the confusing streets of Oundle 
into another tangle of byways. 

Deane House, the fine Tudor residence of the 
Earls of Cardigan, is a few miles to the northwest. 
It is not shown to visitors, but its battlemented tow- 
ers, odd turrets and heavily buttressed walls are plain- 
ly visible from the road. Near it stands Deane 
Church, whose fine open-timbered roof is supported by 
slender oaken columns — quite unusual, indeed. 
There is a beautiful sixteenth century tomb, its de- 
tails almost perfect, with the effigies of the first earl 
and his two wives placed impartially on either side. 
But nowhere else did we see an altar-tomb so chaste 
and artistic as that erected to the late earl, who died 
in 1868. It is wrought in purest alabaster, and be- 
side the figure of the earl, represented as a tall, 
handsome man in full military dress, is the effigy of 
his widow, not interred with her husband as yet, 
but living at the age of eighty-four. Evidently the 
lady desires that future ages shall remember her at 

her best, for the effigy represents a transcendently 

36 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENG-LAND 

beautiful young woman of about twenty, lying calm- 
ly in sleep, her head resting on a gracefully rounded 
arm and her face turned toward her mate. Every 
detail is delicately and correctly done and the whole 
work is redolent of beauty and sentiment. Will it 
ever see such cataclysms as swept over its compan- 
ion tomb? May no iconoclastic vandal ever shatter 
those slenderly wrought hands or carve his churlish 
name on the stately figure of the earl — and yet how 
often such desecrations have occurred in England in 
the not very distant past! 

"There are absolutely no restrictions on visi- 
tors at Kirby Hall," we were informed at Oundle, 
and it might have been added that no effort is made 
to direct one thither. We passed unwittingly and 
were compelled to turn about to find the common- 
looking farm gate that opened through the hedgerow 
into the rough, stone-strewn bit of road leading to the 
dismantled palace. So uninviting was the neglected 
lane that two or three English motorists who ar- 
rived about the same time left their cars and walked 
the mile or so to the Hall. It was not our wont to 
be so cautious, and we drove directly to the stately 
though crumbling gateway. As we rounded a group 
of trees and caught a full view of the splendid facade 
of Kirby Hall, we could not repress an exclamation 
of surprise. Beautiful and imposing, indeed, des- 
pite long years of neglect and decay, is this mag- 

36 



MIDLAND NOOKS AND WASHINGTON COUNTRY 

nificent Tudor mansion! It is built of white stone, 
its long walls pierced by a multitude of graceful win- 
dows and surmounted by great grouped chimneys 
and richly carved and pinnacled gables. Passing 
the imposing entrance, we found ourselves in a wide, 
grass-grown court, which the mansion surrounds in 
quadrangular form. The architecture of the court 
is graceful in the extreme — fluted and carved mar- 
ble pilasters running the full height between the win- 
dows, which have a distinctly classic touch on the 
entrance side. On the three remaining sides there 
are great clustered windows, no less than twenty in 
one of the groups, separated by slender stone mul- 
lions. Most of the glass has disappeared or clings 
to the casements in shattered fragments, though in 
a small, still-inhabited corner the windows are en- 
tire. We wander at will through the once splendid 
apartments, now in pitiable decay and ruin. In 
the banqueting hall — a vast apartment with high 
open-beamed roof and minstrel gallery — a washer- 
woman is heating her water-pots, and piles of wool 
are stored in the Hall of State. But from the far 
greater number of the rooms the roof has wholly or 
partially disappeared and the rooks scold each 
other in the chimneys or caw hungrily among the 
sagging rafters. The room once used for the library 
is less ruinous and its two immense circular bay win- 
dows overlook a beautiful stretch of country. But, 

37 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENG-LiAND 

altogether, the house is more of a ruin than we an- 
ticipated at first glance. Restoration would be ex- 
pensive and difficult. The walls in many places 
lean far from the vertical and are intersected by 
cracks and rents. Columns and pilasters are broken 
and sprung and in many windows the mullions arc 
gone or twisted av^ry. The staircases are gone and 
the halls and passageways piled deep with debris. 
Yet such is the charm of the place that only recently 
an American negotiated with its owner, the Earl of 
Winchelsea, with a view to purchase and restoration, 
but through inability to clear the title, the deal was 
never consummated. Kirby Hall has been in the 
possession of the Winchelsea family ever since it 
was built by Elizabeth's favorite. Sir Christopher 
Hatton, after plans by the master architects, John 
Thorpe and Inigo Jones. Reverses compelled its 
gradual abandonment, though it was inhabited by 
the owner as late as 1830. But we did not inquire 
closely into the history of Kirby Hall, nor do we 
care to do so. We prefer to think of it as more or 
less a mystery — an enchanted palace whose weird 
beauty is not destroyed but only rendered pathetic 
by the decay and desolation that has fallen upon it 
as it stands alone in the wide stretches of forest- 
dotted meadowland. 

It was near the end of a strenuous day when 
we cast a regretful glance at the great chimneys and 

88 



MIDLAND NOOKS AND WASHINGTON COUNTRY 

graceful pinnacles silhouetted against the evening 
sky — but there are no accommodations for travelers 
at Kirby Hall. No place near at hand appealed 
to us. Coventry and its comfortable King's Head 
Hotel v^as not out of reach and attracted us as it 
did more than once in our journeyings. The fifty 
miles w^e covered easily before lamplighting time. 

Although we had visited Coventry before — 
and, as it chanced, re-visited it many times later 
— we did not find our interest in the charming old 
city lessen, and it occurs to us more than ever as the 
best center for Warwickshire. Kenilworth is only 
five miles, Warwick twice as far, and Stratford eight 
miles farther. At Coventry one may be thoroughly 
comfortable, which can hardly be said of the inns 
at Warwick or Stratford. Americans always seek 
the Red Horse at the latter place because of its as- 
sociations with Irving; but there is little more than 
the room our gentle traveler occupied, the chair he 
sat in and the "scepter" wherewith he was wont to 
stir up a cheerful fire in his grate, to induce one to 
return. But in Coventry, at the ancient though much 
re-modeled King's Head, one strikes the happy med- 
ium of English hotels. It has the homelikeness and 
freedom of the smaller country inns without their 
discomforts, and it does not force upon one the pain- 
ful formalities of the resort hotels, with their terri- 
ble English table d'hote dinners. So when we were 

39 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

established at the King*s Head, in spacious rooms, 
with plenty of tables and chairs— articles uncommon 
enough to merit special mention — there was always 
a temptation to linger. 

Of the many thousands of Americans who 
throng to Stratford every year, perhaps only a small 
number are aware that the ancestral homes of the 
Washingtons are only a few miles away. Still small- 
er is the number who make a pilgrimage to Sulgrave 
or to Brington, ten miles farther, though the memo- 
ries and traditions of these places are so closely con- 
nected with the ancestors of the Father of His Coun- 
try. True, his stately home by the Potomac is not 
neglected by his countrymen, but every American 
should be deeply interested in the English forefath- 
ers of the man who more than any other freed them 
from the "rule of kings.'* 

We thought it a favorable omen to see the 
gray sky which had drenched Coventry since dawn 
break into fleecy clouds as we started over the Ban- 
bury road for Sulgrave. The hedges and trees skirt- 
ing the road were washed clean of their coating of 
dust and the whole countryside gleamed like an em- 
erald in the yellow flood of the afternoon sunshine. 
Our car seemed to catch the spirit of delight that 
pervaded everything and sprang away airily and 
noiselessly over the fine highway. Fifteen miles to 
the south we turned into a narrow byway leading to 

40 



iit^,^lgmfmf^t>:em0l^'tlflm'^Xffn--^^- 




MIDLAND NOOKS AND WASHINGTON COUNTRY 

Wormleighton, in whose ancient church there are 
records chronicling the marriage of Robert Wash- 
ington in 1565 and the birth of his son George in 
1608, antedating his famous namesake in America 
by more than a century. It would even now be hard 
to follow on the map this maze of byroads which we 
threaded, winding between the hawthorne hedges 
or gliding beneath the over-arching branches of an- 
cient elms; passing snug farmhouses and cottages 
brilliant with rose vines and creepers and fairly em- 
bowered in old-fashioned flowers; and leading 
through villages the very embodiment of quiet and 
repose. And Sulgrave, the cradle of the Washing- 
tons, seemed the sleepiest and loneliest of them all — 
a gray, straggling hamlet with only here and there 
a dash of color from flower-beds or ivied walls, look- 
ing much as it must have looked when the last Wash- 
ington was Lord of the Manor, more than three hun- 
dred years ago. It rather lacks the neat, trim ap- 
pearance of the average Midland village. Its streets 
are grass-grown and strewni with stones. Many of 
the cottages are surrounded by tumble-down stone 
walls, and the small church with huge embattled 
tower, the product of a recent restoration, crowns 
the hill in a wide, uncared-for graveyard. 

A little to one side of the village they pointed 
out the "Washington House," and we followed a 
stony path leading into the farmyard, where the good 

41 



IN UNFAjMILIAR ENGLAND 

man was just stabling his horses. A typical country 
woman — of the tenant class — ^warmly welcomed us 
at Sulgrave Manor. Clearly they are glad to see 
Americans here; visitors are not the tolerated in- 
truders that they are in so many historic places. We 
learned that we should even be welcome to a clean, 
neatly furnished room had we desired to pass the 
night beneath the roof. We were shown every nook 
and corner of the curious old house — not an exten- 
sive or imposing one, but three hundred years ago 
domestic accommodations were not elaborate even 
in the homes of the nobility, and while the Wash- 
ingtons ranked high among the gentry, they did not 
possess a title. The house has not been greatly al- 
tered, in outward appearance, at least, and is kept 
in scant repair by the owner, a Devonshire gentle- 
man; fortunately, the thick stone wall and heavy 
oaken beams yield but slowly to time's ravages. The 
most imposing feature is the solid black-oak staircase 
with its curiously twisted banisters. The interior has 
been altered from the original plan — just how much 
it is difficult to ascertain. Nothing, however, im- 
presses the American visitor so much as the Wash- 
ington coat-of-arms, executed in plaster on one of 
the gables by the ancient owner. This had suffered 
much from the weather, but has lately been protected 
by a glass covering. The outer walls were originally 
covered with plaster, but this has fallen away in 

42 



MIDLAND NOOKS AND WASHINGTON COUNTRY 

many places, showing the rough stone underneath; 
and elsewhere masses of ivy half hide the small, 
square-paned windows. Very faithful in detail and 
sentiment is Mr. Sherrin's picture, painted at my 
request — the artist gaining his inspiration by a week 
under the old roof while employed in his task. The 
picture shows the old house much as we saw it, 
standing against a rich sunset sky, its harsh outlines 
softened by a little distance. The picture of the 
village and church was done by the artist at the 
same time, though for effect the church is shown 
rather as it appeared before it was restored. We 
followed the rough cobblestone walk to the church 
door, but could not gain admittance until the care- 
taker was found, for Sulgrave Church has been kept 
strictly under lock and key ever since one of the 
Washington brasses was stolen — ^by an American, 
of course — a few years ago. It is a small, rough, 
lichen-covered building, much restored, even to the 
stolen brass tablet to the memory of the first Laur- 
ence Washington. The engraving of this, on an- 
other page, shows how certainly the Washington 
coat-of-arms must have suggested the motif for the 
American flag and the great seal of the United 
States. The church is very ancient and there is in 
the choir a small "Lepers' Door," unique as one of 

three or four in England. Here in olden time the 

43 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

lepers might approach for alms or to hear the ser- 
mon, but dared not enter the church. 

It is not the purpose of this book of random 
wanderings to deal much with sober history, but the 
story of Sulgrave*s connection with the Washingtons 
is not common and a short sketch may not be amiss. 
In the reign of Henry VIII., Laurence Washington 
was Mayor of Northampton and a gentleman of con- 
sequence. Sulgrave was eimong the confiscated 
church lands that the King was offering at bargain 
prices, and Washington purchased it for three hun- 
dred pounds. A tradition that these alienated 
church lands would bring evil fortune to the owner 
does not seem to have deterred him, though when 
his grandson, another Laurence Washington, was 
forced by adverse circumstances to sell the estate, 
the old superstition might seem to have been verified. 
This grandson, with a large family, removed about 
1606 — the exact date is doubtful — to Little Bring- 
ton, some ten miles to the northeast of Sulgrave. 
where he was given a house, it is thought, by the 
Earl of Spencer, to which noble family the Wash- 
ingtons were related by marriage. The Laurence 
Washington who is buried in Great Brington Church 
was the great-great-grandfather of the "first Ameri- 
can. 

Later in our wanderings we visited the B ring- 
tons, which lie only a short distance from Northamp- 

44 



MIDLAND NOOKS AND WASHINGTON COUNTRY 

ton and may be reached by excellent roads running 
through some of the most beautiful Midland country. 
We paused in the midst of a heavy shower near the 
village cross under the gigantic elm that stands in 
front of Great Brington Church, to which we gained 
admission with but little delay. The Brington vil- 
lages are on the estate of the Spencers, one of the 
wealthiest and most ancient families of the English 
nobility, and the church is an imposing one, kept in 
perfect repair. The chief Washington memorials 
are the brasses — the inscription and coat-of-arms — 
over the grave of Laurence Washington of Sulgrave 
and Brington, and these have been sunk deep in the 
stone slab and are guarded by lock and key. In 
the chapel are some of the most elaborate memorials 
we saw — altar tombs bearing the sculptured effigies 
and ancient arms and armor of the Spencers; and 
yet how all this splendid state, all the wealth of 
carving, arms and effigies, shrink into insignificance 
beside the august name on the plain slab in the aisle, 
and how all the trappings of heraldry and the chron- 
icles of all the line of Spencers fade into nothingness 
over against that tiny sunken tablet with its stars and 
bars! 

Half a mile from Great Brington is Little Bring- 
ton, where we saw the Washington house referred 
to previously, with only a few touches, mullioned 

windows and carvings, to distinguish it from the cot- 

45 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

tages of the village tenantry. There is a world of 
pathos in the inscription cut in the stone tablet above 
the doorway, "The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh 
away. Blessed be the name of the Lord," which 
may refer to the loss of Sulgrave and the death 
of a young son shortly after the Washingtons reached 
Brington. Inside, the house, transformed into a lab- 
orer's cottage, has been altered out of all semblance 
to its former self. 

But the rain was still coming down in torrents 
from the leaden skies and hiding the beauties of the 
Bringtons. It took another visit on a perfect August 
day to fix the impression which we still retain of the 
romantic beauty of the little towns, and it is only 
by such a comparison that one can judge how much 
we lost on account of the many days of dark, foggy 
weather that prevail during the sunmier in Britain. 
Under the more pleasant conditions we could but 
feel that, aside from the memories of the Washing- 
tons which hover over the Bringtons, these delight- 
ful Midland villages might well engage the admira- 
tion of the wayfarer. One may well pause in his 
flight through the hawthorne-bordered byways to 
view the prospect that greets the eye from Great 
Brington churchyard. The church occupies slightly 
rising ground, from which in almost every direction 
one may behold stretches of some of the most charm- 
ing rural country in England; and the church itself, 

46 



MIDLAND NOOKS AND WASHINGTON COUNTRY 

with the old village cross beneath the monster elm 
tree, is not the least picturesque feature of the land- 
scape. The village which fronts it, clean, cozy and 
comfortable-looking, its gray walls dashed with ivy 
and relieved by the rich color of rose vines and old- 
time flowers, is as lovely and peaceful a hamlet as 
one will find, even in England. Not less pleasing 
is the surrounding country — **pastorar* describes it — 
with its long reaches of meadowland, broken by 
hedgerows and lordly trees. To the right is Al- 
thorpe House, the stately home of the Spencers, 
with its vast, well-kept park, where the huge old 
oaks shimmer in the hazy midsummer afternoon. 
Amidst all this quiet and beauty one forgets the dark 
problems that threaten England and thinks only of 
her ineffable charm. Little Brington is not less at- 
tractive than its neighbor — the thatched structure 
above the well in the village green and the two hoary 
firs overshadowing it forming a picture as quaint as 
pleasing. We leave the lovely villages regretfully, 
and winding out of the maze of byroads, take the 
highway that leads toward the ancient city of North- 
ampton, whose chief distinction should be that a 
Washington was once its Lord Mayor. 



47 



IV 

MEANDERINGS FROM COVENTRY TO EXETER 

Despite our numerous visits to Coventry, each 
one had some new delight in store; some bit of cur- 
ious antiquity that had previously escaped us was 
sure to turn up, and once in the heart of the old- 
world town, one easily forgets the modern manufac- 
turing city that has grown up around it. In the im- 
mediate vicinity of the famous three spires there clus- 
ters much to detain one and which may well make 
Coventry the shrine of a far greater number of pil- 
grims than it now is. If we enter the grand old 
church of St. MichaeKs, whose slender spire rises 
three hundred feet into the blue heavens — for the 
heavens are blue and cloudless after the rain of yes- 
terday — we shall be confronted by the noblest in- 
terior of any parish church in England. Its un- 
hampered expanse and lightness of design intensify 
its splendid proportions. The fine lancet windows 
gleam like clustered jewels, for modem glass of un- 
usually good taste is intermingled with much dating 
from Tudor times, which, fortunately, escaped the 
wrath of the fanatics. The old caretaker tells us that 
the church is "soon to be a cathedral," and if so, 
it will wear its distinction fitly indeed. 

48 



MEANDERINGiS FROM COVENTRY TO EXETER 

Near by the church is the guildhall, deservedly 
known as one of the finest bits of medieval England 
now extant. One may not undertake to catalog its 
glories, but its contents, as well as its architecture, 
will interest even the layman. In its muniment room 
is a collection of eleven thousand books and manu- 
scripts of great value, and many rare old paintings 
grace the walls of the banqueting hall, which has an 
unrivaled open-timber roof. In the oriel window at 
the head of the stairs, in the softened light of the 
antique glass, stands Coventry's patron Sciint, Lady 
Godiva, her shrinking figure beautifully wrought in 
white marble. Old arms and armor are scattered 
about the halls and the whole atmosphere of the 
place is that of three hundred years ago. 

To be sure, Elizabeth visited the guildhall. 
That rare royal traveler did not neglect the oppor- 
tunity for entertainment and display offered her by 
her loyal subjects of Coventry. Nor is the tradition 
of a certain exchange of compliment between the 
men of the old town and their royal mistress without 
a touch of realism in its portrayal of the sharp sting 
of Elizabeth's wit, not infrequently felt by those who. 
knowing her vanity, undertook to flatter her too 
grossly. For it is recorded that the citizens of Cov- 
entry greeted her majesty in an address done into 
doggerel in this wise: 

49 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

"Wee men of Coventree 

Are very glad to see 

Yr gracious majestie! 

Good Lord, how fair ye bee!" 
To which she instantly responded: 
"Our gracious majesty 

Is very glad to see 

Ye men of Coventree. 

Good Lord, what fools ye bee!" 
But we may not linger in Coventry, and after 
a hasty glance at the almshouses — whose brick-and- 
timber front, with richly carved black-oak beams, 
rivals Leicester's Hospital at Warwick — we are again 
on the King's highway. And it is a highway fit 
for a king, this broad sweeping road that leads from 
Coventry through Kenilworth and Warwick to Strat- 
ford-upon-Avon. There are few more picturesque 
runs in Britain and few that take one past so many 
spots of literary and historic interest. Only the fact 
that we have been over this route several times be- 
fore offers excuse for covering the twenty miles in 
less than an hour. As we flit along we catch 
glimpses of the fragments of Kenilworth, of Guy's 
Cliff, of the old mill; and cautiously thread our way 
through the cramped streets of Warwick, which we 
leave, not without admiring glances at the Castle, 
the splendid tower of St. Mary's Church, and the 
fine facade of Leicester's Hospital. Passing the con- 

50 



MEANDERINGS FROM COVENTRY TO EXETER 

fines of the ancient gate, we soon come into the open 
road, smooth and gently undulating, and a few min- 
utes lands us in Shakespeare's Stratford. 

It would be hard to follow in sequence our 
wanderings from Stratford to Cheltenham, mainly 
through country lanes often hidden between tall 
hedges and leading over steep, rough hills, as we 
sought quaint and historic bits of Worcestershire and 
Gloucestershire. Just beyond Shipston-on-Stour we 
paused before a Jacobean manor house, a slight open- 
ing in the high hedge permitting a glimpse of the 
gray gables and mullioned windows from the road. 
A farmer's wife, who saw us stop, called to us and 
offered to conduct us through the quaint sixteenth 
century building. Little Woolford Manor, as it is 
known. The hall, with open-timber roof, paneled 
walls and minstrel gallery, lighted by tall windows 
still rich with ancient glass, is an apartment to de- 
light any lover of the old-time domicile. This has 
been adapted to a schoolroom and the remainder of 
the house divided into farm tenements. It is full 
of odd corners and weird passageways and very ap- 
propriately has its ghost, a certain "White Ladye,** 
who walks the scene of her earthly misfortunes at mid- 
night. None of the occupants had ever seen her 
or knew anything of the tradition, but no one could 
dispute the good taste of a ghost who should choose 

Little Woolford Manor as a residence. Nor could 

61 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

such a fine old house properly be without its legend 
of Charles the Wanderer, and our guide showed us 
a small secret chamber behind an oven where with a 
few retainers it is said the king hid and was nearly 
roasted by a rousing fire built in the grate by the 
pursuing Cromwellians. 

There are other traditions and relics of the 
royal fugitive in the vicinity, for we passed Little 
Compton Manor, plainly visible from the road, 
which was once the home of Bishop Juxon, the bos- 
om friend of King Charles. Here for many years 
was preserved the block upon which the King's head 
was severed, and also his favorite chair; but these 
disappeared shortly after the Bishop's death. 

A few miles farther, just off the upland road 
from Little Compton to Moreton-in-the-Marsh, one 
may see the Rollright Stones, a druidical circle; and 
tradition declares that these stones were once Danish 
invaders who were thus metamorphosed for some 
presumptuous act. 

Descending a long and dangerously steep hill 
sloping from the upland, we came into Chipping 
Campden, and, possibly excepting Broadway, it has 
hardly an equal in a section famous for picturesque 
towns and villages. A wide street between a long 
array of gray gables with many time-worn carvings, 
odd signs and frequent sun-dials, leads from one 
end of the town, marked by a huge oak, to the other, 

52 



MEANDEiRINGS FROM COVENTRY TO EXETER 

where a giant chestnut stands sentinel. Here again 
the almshouses attract attention. They are built of 
soft-toned brown stone and the walls are surmounted 
by pointed gables and clustered chimneys. Near by 
rises the graceful church tower, overshadowing a 
building whose vast proportions seem to ill accord 
with the decayed little town about it. But we learn 
that it was built when Chipping Campden was the 
greatest wool market in the country, and a brass 
tablet of 1401 commemorates one of the ancient 
benefactors of the church as the "flower of all wool 
merchants in England.*' We found inside some of 
the most perfect brasses that we had seen, but a 
general restoration had quite robbed the church of 
its greatest charm. The large pillared cross in the 
wool market and the massive proportions of the 
courthouse, with its heavily buttressed walls, testify 
mutely of the time when Chipping Campden was a 
place of much greater importance than it is today. 
Broadway is already famous. Its "discovery" 
is attributed to Americans, and several American 
artists of note — among them Mr. F. D. Millet, who 
occupies the ancient manor house of the Abbot of 
Pershore — have been included in the foreign contin- 
gent. Its name is derived from the broad London 
and Worcester road which passes in a long sweeping 
curve between rows of fine Tudor and Jacobean 

houses with many fanciful gables and massive stone 

53 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

chimneys. In the coaching days Broadway was of 
great importance and then were built the fine inns 
and business houses. A period of decadence fol- 
lowed, during which it gradually sank into a neg- 
lected country village, from which oblivion the old- 
world charm of its very decay finally rescued it. It 
shows quite markedly the influx of outsiders and 
the trail of the tourist; in this regard it is inferior 
to the as yet undiscovered and unspoiled town of 
Chipping Campden. But while there is a touch of 
newness in the outskirts and while the antique build- 
ings show traces of returning prosperity, there is still 
much in Broadway to please the eye and delight 
the artistic sense. Few indeed of the old-time inns 
have the charm of the Lygon Arms, where we 
paused for our afternoon tea. (Afternoon tea — so 
far have the customs of the land of our sojourn cor- 
rupted us!) It is a many-gabled building of soft 
sandstone, rich with browns verging into reds and 
dashed here and there with masses of ivy which 
half hide the deep-set stone-mullioned windows. 
To the rear its glass-roofed garage with cement floor 
and modem accessories tells plainly of one source of 
returning prosperity. Everywhere about the inn is 
cleanliness, and the charm of the antique is com- 
bined with modem comfort. The interior is quite 
as unspoiled as the outside, and nothing could be 

more redolent of old-time England than the im- 

54 



MEANDBRINGS FROM COVENTRY TO EXETER 

mense fireplace in the ingle nook of the hall. Here, 
loo, linger legends of King Charles, and there is 
one great paneled room with huge fireplace and 
Tudor furniture that claims the honor of association 
with the sterner name of Cromwell. Perhaps the 
least pleasing feature of our pilgrimage was the ne- 
cessity that often forced us to hasten by places like 
the Lygon Arms — but one could scarce exhaust 
Britain's attractions in a lifetime should he pause as 
long and as often as he might wish. 

Evesham we passed in the rain and gathering 
twilight. We reached Tewkesbury at nightfall, but 
its inns did not strike our fancy, and we hastened to 
Cheltenham, leaving the fine old towns for a later 
visit. At the Victoria in Cheltenham we found 
things much more to our liking. 

We followed a main road almost due south 
from Cheltenham through Painswick, Stroud and 
Nailsworth, gray old towns lying deep in the hills. 
At Painswick is a fine Perpendicular church, so 
much restored as to present a rather new appearance. 
The churchyard has a wonderful array of carefully 
clipped yew trees, perhaps a hundred in all, though 
no one, says local tradition, can count them twice 
the same — a peculiarity also ascribed to the mono- 
liths at Stonehenge. Close to the church walls are 
the ancient stocks, in this case forged from heavy 

iron bars and presenting an air of staunch security 

65 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

that must have struck terror to the hearts of old- 
time culprits; and the rough stone slab upon which 
the offenders were seated still remains in place. 

Stroud is a larger and better-appearing town, 
whose ten thousand inhabitants depend mainly upon 
the manufacture of English broadcloths. The whole 
section, in fact, was once the center of cloth manu- 
facture, but the advent of the steam engine and more 
modern methods superseded the watermills. All 
about are half-ruined factory buildings, some of them 
once of vast extent, with shattered windows and 
sagging roofs. Here and there one has survived in 
a small way or has been adapted to some other in- 
dustry. In the neighborhood are many country 
houses, once the residences of wealthy cloth-makers, 
but now either deserted or turned into farm tene- 
ments. 

The country is hilly and wooded, and we had 
few points of vantage that afforded views more pictur- 
esque and far-reaching than from some of the upland 
roads overlooking these Gloucestershire landscapes. 
The road sweeps around the hills, rising at times 
far above the valleys, affording a panorama of the 
Avon gleaming through the dense green foliage that 
half conceals it. The vale presents the most charm- 
ing characteristics of rural England. One sees the 
irregular patchwork of the little fields, the great parks 
with their sunny meadowlands and groups of an- 

56 



MEANDERINOS FROM COVENTRY TO EXETER 

cient trees, the villages lying in the valleys or cling- 
ing to the hillsides, and the gray church towers that 
lend a touch of majesty and solemn sentiment to al- 
most every glimpse of Britain. 

We missed the main road from Bath to Wells, 
wandering through a maze of unmarked byroads, 
and were able to proceed only by frequent inquiry. 
We did not regain the highway until just entering 
the town and had been a comparatively long time 
in going a short distance. After a few minutes* 
pause to admire the marvelous west front of the ca- 
thedral, with its endless array of crumbling prophets, 
saints and kings, weatherworn to a soft-gray blur, 
we were away on the highroad leading across the 
wold to Cheddar, famed for its stupendous cliffs, 
its caverns — and its cheese. The caverns and cliffs 
are there, but little cheese now comes from Cheddar, 
even though it bears the name. As we ascended the 
exceedingly steep and winding road we were aston- 
ished — overwhelmed. We had not expected to find 
natural scenery upon such an amazing scale in the 
heart of England — gray pinnacled cliffs rising, al- 
most sheer, five hundred feet into the sky. Not of- 
ten may British scenery be styled imposing, but the 
towering cliffs of Cheddar surely merit such descrip- 
tion. In the midst of the gorge between the great 
cliffs there are two prehistoric caverns extending far 

into the earth. We entered one of them, now a 

57 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

mere passageway, now a spacious cavern whose 
domelike roof glistens with translucent stalactites. 
Here we pass a still, mirrorlike pool, and there a 
deep fissure from which comes the gurgle of a sub- 
terranean river. Altogether, there is much that is 
interesting and impressive. Perhaps it all seems a 
little gaudy and unnatural because of the advertis- 
ing methods and specious claims of the owner and 
alleged discoverer, but none the less a visit is worth 
while. The museum of relics found in the cavern 
contains a remarkable prehistoric skull, with low, 
thick frontal bone and heavy square jaw, but its 
queerest feature is little spurlike projections of the 
temporal bone just above the ear. It is estimated by 
archaeologists that the possessor of this curious skull 
had lived at least forty thousand years ago and may- 
hap had made his dwelling-place in the Cheddar 
Caves. We were assured that an offer from the 
British Museum of five thousand pounds for the relic 
had been refused. 

The sun was low when we left Cheddar, and 
Taunton seemed the nearest place where we might 
be sure of good accommodations. We soon reached 
Axbridge, a gray little market town, so ancient that 
a hunting-lodge built by King John still stands on 
the market square. Near Bridgewater, a few miles 
farther, is the Isle of Athelney — once an island in a 
marsh, perhaps — where King Alfred made his last 

58 



MEANDERINGS FROM COVENTRY TO EXETER 

desperate stand against the Danish invaders, defeat- 
ing them and finally expelling them from Britain. 
Not less in interest, though perhaps less important in 
its issues, was the Battle of Sedgemoor, fought here 
in 1685, when the Duke of Monmouth was disas- 
trously defeated by the Royal Army — the last battU 
worthy of the name to be waged on English soil. 

But we were to learn more of Monmouth at 
Taunton and to have again impressed upon us how 
easy it is in Britain for one to hasten through places 
of the deepest historic interest quite unaware of their 
tragic story. We had passed through Taunton be- 
fore, seeing little but a staid old country town with 
a church tower of unmatched gracefulness and dig- 
nified proportions; but Taunton's tragic part in the 
parliamentary wars and her fatal connection with 
"King Monmouth" never occurred to us, if, indeed, 
we knew of it at all. Taunton was strongly for 
the Parliament, but it was a storm center and was 
taken and retaken until the iron hand of Fairfax 
crushed the Royalists before its walls. Its record 
stood against it when the King "came into his own 
again." Its walls were leveled to the ground, its 
charter taken away and many of its citizens thrown 
into prison. Discontent and hatred of the Stuarts 
were so rampant that any movement against their 
rule was welcomed by the Taunton Whigs, though 

it is hard to see any consistency in the unreasoning 

59 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

support they gave to the Duke of Monmouth — the 
son of Charles II. and one of his many mistresses — 
in his pretensions to the throne occupied by James 
II. Monmouth entered Taunton amidst the wildest 
acclamations, and it was from the market square of 
the rebellious town that he issued his proclamation 
assuming the title of King. He was followed by an 
ill-organized and poorly equipped army of seven 
thousand men, who were defeated by four thousand 
Royal Troops. Then followed a reign of terror in 
Taunton. The commander of the King's forces 
hanged, without pretense of trial, many of his priso- 
ners, using the sign of the old White Hart Inn as a 
gallov/s. Then came the Bloody Assizes, held by 
Jeffreys of infamous memory, in the great hall of the 
castle. After trials no more than travesties of bru- 
tal jests and savage cruelty, more than three hundred 
Somersetshire men were sentenced, according to the 
terrible customs of the time, to be "hanged, drawn 
and quartered," and a thousand were doomed to 
transportation. Here the active history of Taunton 
may be said to have ended. 

But Taunton has little to remind us of these 
dark and bloody times as we glide through her fine 
old streets and draw up in front of the London 
Hotel, where the host himself in evening dress wel- 
comes us at the door. Every attention is given us 
and The London certainly deserves its official ap- 

60 



MEANDERING^ FROM COVENTRY TO EXETER 
pointment by the Royal Automobile Club as well 
as the double distinction accorded it by the infalli- 
ble Baedeker. It is one of the charming old-fash- 
ioned inns, such as perhaps inspired the poet Shen- 
stone with the sentiment expressed in his well-known 
quatrain : 

"Whoe'er has traveled life's dull round, 
Whate'er his stages may have been, 
May sigh to think that he has found 
His warmest welcome at an inn." 

Modern Taunton is a city of some twenty 
thousand people, and being the county town, with 
some manufactories, it enjoys a quiet prosperity. Of 
its ancient landmarks, the castle, dating from the 
eleventh century, is the most notable and has ap- 
propriately been turned into a museum. Here one 
may enter the hall where Jeffreys held his court. 
Though two centuries or more have elapsed, the 
"horror of blood" seems still to linger in the gloomy 
apartment. The market-place retains its old-time 
characteristics, and though the house occupied by 
Jeffreys has disappeared, the White Hart Inn still 
stands. But the glory of Taunton is St. Mary's 
Church, one of the most graceful examples of the 
Perpendicular period in England. The splendid 
tower seems almost frail in its airy lightness — and 

perhaps it is, for it is a recent restoration, or rather 

61 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

replacement, of the older one, which had become 
insecure. 

Sherborne Abbey we had missed in our former 
wanderings, though once very near it, and we felt 
that we must make amends though it cost us a detour 
of sixty miles. And yet, what hardship is it to go 
out of one's way in Britain? Indeed, can one ever 
go out of his way in rural England? Scarcely, from 
the point of view of such nomads as ourselves. 

The great tower of Curry Rivell Church dom- 
inates in such a lordly manner the village straggling 
up the hill toward it that we were tempted to look 
inside, and a mild curiosity was aroused, from which 
we have never yet been able to rid ourselves. For, 
chained to one of the iron railings of a sixteenth 
century tomb, is a queer little iron-bound oaken cabi- 
net. It is scarcely more than a foot in length, the 
wood is worm-eaten and the massive lock and heavy 
hinges are red with rust. What mystery does it 
contain and why did it escape the church-looters of 
Puritan times? The church is rich in antique carv- 
ings, among them a delicately wrought screen and 
fine fifteenth century bench ends. The tomb to 
which the coffer is chained is a very unusual one. 
It bears on its altar the effigies of two mail-clad war- 
riors, while at either side kneel figures of their wives 
over two tiny cribs with several gnomelike children 
tucked in each. Overhead, borne by four pillars, 

62 



MEANDERINGS FROM COVENTRY TO EXETER 

is a domed canopy upon which are painted four 
sprawling cherubs. All very quaint and strange and 
illustrative of the queer mortuary ideas of the med- 
ieval period. 

We followed the winding, hilly and often in- 
different road that leads through Somerton, Ilchester 
and Yeovil to Sherborne, and while our lunch was 
preparing at the slow-moving Antelope — there is 
little in a name, in this instance — we wandered down 
old-world streets to the abbey, the goal of all pil- 
grims to Sherborne. It seemed odd to find the old 
town crowded with rural visitors all agape at a 
fantastic circus parade that was winding along the 
crooked streets, but Sherborne is fond of parades and 
pageants, for we were assured that the historical 
pageant now the rage in the older towns of England 
was originated in Sherborne. The town itself is a 
charming place — I borrow the words of an enthu- 
siastic admirer whose picture may be better than I 
can paint: 

"It is a bright town, prim and old-fashioned, 
and unsullied by the aggressive villas and red brick 
terraces of the modern suburb. Although a small 
place, it is yet of much dignity. Here are timber- 
faced dwellings, where the upper story overhangs 
the lower, and where the roof breaks out into irrele- 
vant gables; houses with the stone-muUioned case- 
ments of Tudor days or the round bow window of 

6S 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

the Georgian period; houses with gateways under 
them leading into courtyards; humble buildings fash- 
ioned out of stone filched from a church; cottages 
with the arched doorways of a convent or with but- 
tresses worthy of a chapel; pieces of old wall and 
other miscellaneous fragments which the town with 
its love for the past has never had the heart to cast 
aside. Over the grey roofs can be seen the trees 
upon the hilltop, while over many a crumbling wall 
comes the fragrance of garden or orchard." 

But as we rounded a corner and came upon a 
full view of the abbey church, we felt that it had 
rightly been styled the "glory of Sherborne.** Per- 
haps its low tower gives an impression of incomplete- 
ness and lack of proportion — but it seemed to accen- 
tuate the mighty proportions of the church itself and 
it was with a feeling almost verging upon awe that 
we entered the majestic portals. And we learned 
it as we know only few historic churches in Eng- 
land, for the gem of all vergers is at Sherborne. To 
him his work is a labor of love, not the usual per- 
functory performance in hope of a fee. He had 
made discoveries of importance himself in whiling 
away his time in the abbey and had located and un- 
covered an ancient effigy that had been inconsider- 
ately built into the walls in earlier days. He told 
us of the checkered history of the abbey, of the wars 
of the monks and citizens, as a result of which the 

64 



MEANDERINGS FROM COVENTRY TO EXETER 

church suffered from a great (ire, the marks of which 
still remain in the red stains on the soft yellow stone, 
of the Dissolution and the cavalier manner in which 
Henry the Wrecker bestowed the abbey on one of 
his friends, who in turn sold it to the parish for 
two hundred and fifty pounds — all of which would 
be too long to record in detail in this crowded chron- 
icle. But the interior of Sherborne Abbey — ^where 
is there another like it? Not in all England; prob- 
ably not in the world. It lacks the "dim religious 
light" that pervades, like a soft-toned mist, most of 
the great church buildings; the windows flood the 
yellow stone with many-colored beams and lighten 
the splendors of the golden fan vault with its rich 
bosses and heraldic devices until every detail comes 
out clearly to the beholder below. 

But we are lingering too long at the abbey; 
we were to return to the Antelope in half an hour, 
and thrice that period has elapsed. We hie back 
to our inn and do not complain of our cold repast. 
"It is ten minutes* walk to the castle," said our host. 
Then why take the car? A ten minutes' walk will 
give us a little of the exercise we need. We start 
under the sweltering sun — it is a hot day, even as 
we reckon it — and follow the crooked streets. Here 
is a high wall — it must be the castle. No, the castle 
is farther on; and we repeat the wearisome experi- 
ence until half an hour has elapsed and we 

65 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

are only at the entrance gate of the park. We are 
almost exhausted, for our long tramp on the "abbey 
stones" did not especially invigorate us, but we will 
go on after having come so far. 

It was hardly worth while — Cromwell had left 
very little of Sherborne Castle. It seemed melan- 
choly, indeed, that the riddled gateway and the 
straggling pieces of wall should be all that remains 
of such a lordly building. We were interested to 
know that it had been granted to Sir Walter Raleigh 
"forever" in 1597 — but only six years later the 
knightly founder of Virginia was indicted for trea- 
son and fell a victim to the cowardly malice of King 
James, and Sherborne Castle reverted to the crown. 
It was less than half a century later that Fciirfax re- 
ceived its surrender in the name of the Parliament, 
and when the gunpowder mines were fired the ac- 
tive days of the fortress were at an end. 

We retrace our steps to the Antelope, thinking 
mournfully of the car, which would have made such 
short and easy work of our weary trip, and we 
heave a sigh of relief when once more, having 
donned our "seven-league boots," we hear the soft 
purr of the motor and enjoy the rush of the cool, 
sweet air — after our "ten minutes' walk." 

It grows late and Exeter is far away, but we 
are sure of comfort at the Rougemont and we give 
the car rein. How she sweeps over the sunset hills 

66 



MEANDBRINGS FROM COVENTRY TO EXETER 

and glides along the cool valleys, pausing cautiously 
to pass some rose-embowered village, now gathering 
speed again for another rush over the fine road! 
She is ahead of schedule at Honiton, and one of our 
party remembers that the Honiton lace is famous. 
It is an expensive bit of recollection, but all things 
go in a motor tour. After a half-hour's pause, we 
are away again, and before long catch sight of the 
huge bulk of Exeter Cathedral looming above the 
old city against the twilight sky. 



67 



V 

RAMBLES IN THE WEST COUNTRY 

"Through the heart of Dartmoor forest" may 
bring up many fascinating, even weird associations, 
but on our map we regarded the thin red line of our 
road rather dubiously. It runs almost straight from 
Exeter to Prince Town — the prison town of the 
moor — and on either side for many miles lies a 
waste country, apparently quite devoid of villages 
and even of roads. The road as shown on the map 
is thickly studded with arrow heads, denoting dan- 
gerous hills, and the description in the road-book is 
far from alluring. But we were not to be deterred 
from exploring Dartmoor, as we had been on a 
previous occasion, though indeed we found the first 
few miles between Exeter and Moreton Hampstead 
trying and almost terrifying in places. The hills of- 
fered little impediment to our motor, but for all 
that one has a rather eery feeling when clinging to 
a precipitous incline. If something should let loose! 
But nothing did. 

Moreton Hampstead is a bleak, lonely little 
town set well into the western edge of the moor and 
surrounded by rugged tors on every hand. It is not 

6S 



RAMBLES IN THE WEST COUNTRY 
without a bit of antiquity, for it has a sixteenth cen- 
tury building, called the Arcade, whose Moorish 
touches are decidedly picturesque. It is like a bit 
of Spain in the hills of Dartmoor and seems strange- 
ly out of place. Only three miles from Moreton 
Hampstead, lying in a secluded valley, is Chagford, 
famous for its quaint old inn and wild surroundings. 
Once out of Moreton Hampstead and away 
on the yellow highway that bisects the moor, we 
found ourselves in a country as barren as any we 
had seen in England. The road, though winding 
and steep, is generally visible for some distance ahead, 
and we found little hindrance to a swift, steady flight 
that carried us over the long hills far more quickly 
than we anticipated. The day, which had begun in 
mist and rain, became lighter and a rapidly clear- 
ing sky gave us the opportunity of seeing the wild 
beauty of the moor at its best. Despite its loneliness 
and cheerlessness, there was a wonderful play of 
color: the reds and browns of the broken granite, 
the purple blaze of the heather, the vivid yellow of 
the gorse and the metallic green of the whortle, all 
intensified by golden sunshine, have marvelously 
transformed the somber tone of the moorland of scarce 
an hour before. But where is the "forest"? Only 
stunted trees appear here and there, or a fringe of 
woods along the clear streams; we learn that 

"forest" once meant a waste, uncultivated tract of 

69 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

land, and in later days has been applied to wood- 
lands alone. We run for miles with no human hab- 
itation in sight save an occasional cottage in a 
small, barren field surrounded by stone walls. We 
come upon a large, attractive-looking inn imexpect- 
edly — though it ought not to be unexpected to find 
an inn anywhere in England — the Two Bridges, 
situated near the head waters of the Dart, here no 
more than a brawling streamlet. We leave the car 
by the roadside and enter the homelike hall, where 
an array of fishing-tackle makes clear the excuse for 
this pleasant hotel in the moor. The day has been 
chilly and, strange to say, a fire flickers in the grate. 
We are just in time for luncheon and a goodly num- 
ber of guests respond to the vigorous beating of the 
gong — that almost universal abomination of the pro- 
vincial English hotel. It appears that the quiet and 
seclusion of Dartmoor is not without its attractions 
to many people. We ourselves leave the pleasant 
inn with regret; we should have liked a day's rest 
in the cozy ingle-nook. 

The walls and battlements of Prince Town 
Prison soon loom in sight. This was established in 
1 800 as a military prison for French soldiers, and a 
few Americans were confined here in 1812. It 
then fell into disuse until 1850. but for the half-cen- 
tury since it has served its present purpose as a penal 

70 



RAMBLES IN THE WEST COUNTRY 

institution and has been greatly added to from time 
to time. 

An English writer says: "Dartmoor is so huge 
that one must be born and spend a lifetime near 
it to really know it, and the visitor can merely en- 
deavour to see typical examples of its granite tors, 
its peaty streams, its great stretches of boulder- 
strewn heather, and its isolated villages." Evi- 
dently he must mean that it is huge in its mysteries 
and its moods, for it is really only fourteen by twenty- 
two miles — perhaps half as large as the average 
county in the United States. 

At Tavistock we are well beyond the confines 
of the moor and follow a fine road to Launceston, 
where we glance at the huge circular keep of the 
castle and look longingly at the White Hart, which 
recalls only pleasant memories. But we are bound 
for an enchanted land and, like many a gallant 
knight of yore, we would hasten past "many-tow- 
ered Camelot" to the castle of the blameless king. 
The declining sun, toward which we rapidly course, 
seems to flash across the Cornish hills the roselight 
of the old Arthurian romance, and the stately meas- 
ures of the "Idyls of the King" come unbidden to 
our minds. But we soon have something less ro- 
mantic to think of, for in attempting a short cut to 
Tintagel without going to Camelford, we run into a 

series of the crookedest, roughest lanes we found in 

71 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

all England. These appear to have been quite 
abandoned; in places mere ravines with myriads of 
sharp loose stones and many long steep hills. But 
we push on and almost ere we are aware, find our- 
selves in Tintagel village, which with its long rows of 
boarding-houses hardly accords with one's precon- 
ceived romantic notions. Then we catch a glimpse 
of the ocean out beyond the headland, upon which 
is perched a huge, square-towered building — King 
Arthur's Castle Hotel, they tell us — and thither we 
hasten. This hotel, only recently completed, is 
built on a most liberal scale, though it can hardly ac- 
commodate many guests at a time. The public 
rooms are most elaborately furnished and of enor- 
mous size. The great round table in the reading 
room is a replica of the original at Shrewsbury, at 
which, declares tradition. King Arthur sat with his 
fifty knights. The guest rooms are on an equally 
generous scale and so arranged that every one fronts 
on the sea. The rates are not low by any means, 
yet it is hard to conceive how such a hotel can be a 
paying investment. 

After we reached the hotel, the long twilight 
still gave time to contemplate the weird beauty of 
the surroundings and to explore the ruins of the castle 
so famed in song and story. We scrambled down 
the high headland, upon which the hotel stands, 
to the level of the blue inlet of the sea, depicted in 

72 



RAMBLES IN THE WEST COUNTRY 
such a masterly manner in the painting by Mr. 
Moran, the towering cliffs crowned by the frag- 
mentary ruins looming far above us. A path cut 
in the edge of the cliff leads to a precarious-looking 
foot-bridge across the chasm and a still narrower 
and steeper path hugs the face of the precipice on 
the opposite side until a heavy oaken door is reached. 
This door, to which the old caretaker in the cottage 
below had given me the key, opens into the sup- 
posed site of King Arthur's castle. Only a few 
scattered bits of masonry remain and these are prob- 
ably of a later time than that of the early Briton. 

The spot is lonely and quite barren save a few 
patches of greensward upon which were peace- 
fully grazing a flock of sheep — one finds them every- 
where in Britain. I was quite alone — there were 
no other visitors at that late hour and my compan- 
ions had given up the dizzy ascent before it was 
fairly begun — and I strove to reconstruct in imagina- 
tion the castle as it stood in the days of the blame- 
less king. How the wild old stories crowded upon 
me in that lonely twilight hour! Here, legend de- 
clares — and I care not if it be dim indeed and ques- 
tioned by the wiseacres — was once the court of the 
wise and faultless Arthur, who gathered to himself 
the flower of knighthood of Christendom and was 
invincible to all attacks from without, but whose 

dominion crumbled away before the faithlessness and 

73 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

dishonor of his own followers. Here, perchance, 
the faithless Guinevere pined and sighed for her for- 
sworn lover and gazed on the sea, calm and radiant 
as it is even now, or saw it lash itself into unspeak- 
able fury upon the frowning bastions of the coast. 
But, alas! how dim and uncertain is all that is left, 
and how the tales vary save that they all center in 
the king! Little remains in local tradition of all the 
vanished splendors of those ancient days save that 
the king did not die; that in the form of a chough 
he haunts the scenes of his glory and his dovmfall, 
and that he will come again — 

But I am quite forgetting the flight of time, and 
with a lingering look at the storied spot, I slowly 
descend. Then I climb to the more extensive ruin 
on the landward side, much shattered but grim and 
massive in decay. There must have been a connec- 
tion between the castles on either side of the great 
ravine, though it is hardly apparent how this could 
have been. Perhaps the gap has widened much in 
the long course of time. It is dusk when we return 
to the hotel and sit long on the open terrace fronting 
the sea, contemplating the beauty of the scene. 

Never have I beheld a more glorious sunset 
than that which lightened the wild Cornish coast 
and ocean on that particular evening. A dark band 
of cloud lay low along the western horizon, with a 
clear, opalescent sky above, and below a thin strip 

74 



RAMBLES IN THE WEST COUNTRY 

of lucent gold with silvery clouds floating in it like 
fairy ships. Suddenly the sun dropped from behind 
the cloud, which had obscured his full splendor, 
into the resplendent zone beneath, flooding the sea, 
into which he slowly sank, with a marvelous though 
evanescent glory. Then followed all the indescrib- 
able color changes and combinations, which varied 
momentarily until they faded into the dusky hues 
of a moonlit night. It marked the close of a perfect 
day — clear and cool, with sky of untainted blue and 
ocean as still and glassy as a quiet inland lake. 

Not less inspiring was the scene that greeted us 
through our open lattices in the morning — a sea steely 
blue in the distance, rippling into bars of frosted sil- 
ver near the shore, while the stern outlines of the 
headlands were softened by a clinging blue haze. 
We lingered on the legend-haunted ground until 
nearly noon and it was with keen regret that we 
glided away from the pleasant hostelry back to the 
village and past the old church on the headland, 
whose bells tolled without mortal hands on the far- 
off day when the body of King Arthur was borne 
away to sepulture in Glastonbury Abbey. 

A fine upland road led us nearly due north 
from Camelford through long stretches of moorland 
— or country almost as sterile as the moors — diversi- 
fied with great patches of gorse and scattered groups 

of stunted trees. We encountered scarcely a village 

75 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

for a distance of twenty-five miles, for we did not 
turn aside for Bude or for Stratton, just opposite on 
each side of the road. The latter is said to be one 
of the most unspoiled and genuinely ancient of the 
smaller Cornish villages. At times we were within 
a mile or two of the ocean and caught fugitive 
glimpses of blue expanses of quiet sea. Then the 
road sweeps farther inland and the country improves 
in appearance, though it is still Cornwall and Devon 
and far different from the sleek, prosperous beauty 
of the Midlands. 

"The most exquisite towTi in England," writes 
an enthusiast of Clovelly, but Clovelly's very quaint- 
ness has made it so widely known that it hardly 
has a place in a chronicle that seeks rather the un- 
trodden ways. It is not possible for a motor or 
any other vehicle to descend the steep, stone- 
paved streets, and about a quarter of a mile above 
the town we left the car in an exceedingly prosper- 
ous-looking stable-yard filled to overflowing with 
motors, carriages and chars-a-bancs. 

Clovelly well deserves its reputation for the pic- 
turesque qualities that have transformed it from an 
unpretentious fishing village, lost among the clifflike 
hills, into a thronged tourist resort. Fortunately, as 
yet there has been no attempt to modernize; no 
stucco-and-timber hotel detracts from the antique 
flavor; the people who come to Clovelly do not as 

76 



RAMBLES IN THE WEST COUNTRY 

a rule stay long. Large excursion steamers, usually 
crowded, ply from Ilfracombe, and coaches and 
chars-a-bancs from Hartland and Barnstaple bring 
troops of visitors. Coaching parties come from Tin- 
tagel (round trip eighty miles) and one is sure to 
find Clovelly crowded in season, especially if the 
day is fine. And so v/e found it, literally thronged, 
a huge excursion steamer lying at anchor in the har- 
bor. There was a little disarray and confusion at 
the pleasant New Inn — new in name only — evident- 
ly due to more patronage than could easily be taken 
care of. As we waited for luncheon we looked 
about at the collection of antique brass, copper, 
china and pottery that alnost covered the walls and 
crowded the mantelpieces and odd corners about the 
inn. We were told that the landlady is a famous 
collector and that many of the pieces are rare and 
valuable. A more amusing if not less interesting 
feature of the house is the sentiment expressed in 
halting doggerel, emblazoned in large red letters on 
the walls and ceiling of the dining-room. It is good 
only from the standpoint of exceeding badness, and 
its general tenor is to flatter Americans, who no 
doubt constitute a large proportion of the guests. 

The old, time-worn churches of England are 
past numbering and they came to have an almost 
weird fascination for us. The tombs, ranging from 
the artistic to the ghastly or grotesque, the old stones 

77 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

with their often queer or even ridiculous epitaphs, 
the sculptures, the bosses, the frescoes, the stained 
windows, the gargoyles and the oftentimes strange 
history or still stranger legends connected with nearly 
every one — but why prolong the list of curious at- 
tractions of these ancient fanes, often quite peculiar 
in each case? Just before we entered Barnstaple we 
turned into a byroad, and dropping dowTi a hill of 
appalling steepness and length, came to Tawstock 
Church, famed as the finest country church in Devon 
— the "Westminster of the West Country," some 
enthusiast has styled it. Though hardly deserving 
such a dignified characterization as this, Tawstock 
Church is well worth a visit. Besides some remark- 
able tombs and fine Elizabethan pews, it has a pe- 
culiar gallery curiously wrought in vine and leaf pat- 
tern from black oak, and now used by the bell- 
ringers to reach the tower. Tawstock Mansion, 
near by, appears rather modem — a large building 
shining in a fresh coat of yellow paint that gave it 
much the appearance of a summer hotel. The 
house and church are located in a deep wooded 
valley and the towers of the ancient gateway lend 
a touch of much-needed antiquity to the scene. 

Barnstaple, like Bideford, while a very old 
town, has few old-time relics now left. It has be- 
come a manufacturing town, its chief product being 

Barum ware, an inexpensive grade of pottery. The 

78 



RAMBLES IN THE WEST COUNTRY 

Golden Lion Inn, once a residence of the Earl of 
Bath, is famed as a place of solid comfort, and still 
retains much of the gorgeous decorations done by 
its former occupant. The poet Shelley had an odd 
association with Barnstaple. When living at Lyn- 
ton, after his marriage with Harriet Westbrook, he 
came to Barnstaple and spent some time in bringing 
out a pamphlet scurrilously attacking the chief jus- 
tice who had sentenced to prison the publisher of 
the works of Thomas Paine. One of the poet's as- 
sociates, who distributed the pamphlets, was sen- 
tenced to six months in jail, and Shelley narrowly 
escaped by hastily leaving the town. 

The road from Bideford through Barnstaple 
and Ilfracombe is rather uninteresting, save the last 
few miles, which pass through wooded hills and 
along deep verdant valleys. Ilfracombe is a resort 
town, pure and simple, and we found few hotels 
on a grander scale than the Ilfracombe, standing 
in beautiful grounds facing the sea, which murmured 
almost directly beneath our open windows. It was 
a beautiful evening; the tide was just receding from 
the jutting rocks scattered along the coast, whereon 
the sea, even in its mildest moods, chafes into foam; 
and one can easily imagine a most awe-inspiring 
scene when the angry ocean, driven by a westerly 
wind, assails these bold, angular rocks. After hav- 
ing visited every resort town of note in England, our 

79 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

recollection is that of all, Ilfracombe is the most 
strikingly situated; nor do any of them command 
views of a coast line more rugged and picturesque. 

The rain was falling heavily when we came to 
Dunster on the following day and the abbey church 
was gloomy indeed. And what can be gloomier 
than an old church on a gray day, when the rain 
pours from the low-hung clouds and sweeps in fitful 
gusts against the mossy gravestones and crumbling, 
ivy-clad walls? A scene that renders one solemn 
and thoughtful on almost any occasion becomes pos- 
itively depressing under such conditions. And 
though we recall Dunster Church with associations 
not unpleasing in perspective, the surroundings were 
not altogether pleasing at the time. We found the 
caretaker, a bent old woman, in the church, but she 
informed us that there were really two churches and 
that she had jurisdiction over only one of them. 
However, she conducted us about the dimly lighted 
building, gloomy indeed from the lowering skies 
without, and our recollection of her story of the 
quarrel that resulted in the partition of the church 
has faded quite away. But we do remember the 
rood screen which has fourteen separate openings, 
no two wrought in the same pattern and altogether 
as marvelous a piece of black-oak carving as we saw 
in England. 

80 



RAMBLES IN THE WEST COUNTRY 

Aside from the abbey church, there are other 
things of interest in Dunster, especially the market 
cross and the castle. The latter overlooks the town 
from a neighboring hill and is one of the lordliest for- 
tresses in the West Country. The town lies in one 
of the loveliest vales in Somersetshire and is famed 
for its beautiful surroundings. This section of Som- 
erset and Devon is rich in literary associations; at 
Nether Stowey we pass the square, uncomfortable- 
looking house, close to the roadside, where Coler- 
idge lived for three years, beginning in 1 797. In- 
deed, it was in the autumn of that year that he made 
the excursion with Wordsworth and Dorothy, dur- 
ing which the plan of the "Ancient Mariner'* was 
conceived. A few months before, while in a lonely 
farmhouse between Porlock and Lynton, he had the 
dream which he started to record in **Kubla Khan.'* 
This poem he had composed in his dream, but while 
writing it down on awakening, a "person from Por- 
lock" interrupted, and when the poet essayed to 
write, not only the words but the images of the 
vision had faded away, and the fragment of "Kubla 
Khan" remains like a shattered gem. Wordsworth 
and his sister Dorothy came a little later to Alfoxden 
House, standing in a pleasant park in the parish of 
Halford, and here the literary association between 
Coleridge and Wordsworth became intimate and the 

little volume of **L5nrical Ballads" was published 

81 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

jointly by them in 1798. Southey, while storm- 
stayed by "an unwelcome summer rain'* at the Ship 
Inn in Porlock, wrote a sonnet in praise of the hills 
and glens. Hazlitt and Charles Lamb at times 
joined their friends here for pedestrian excursions 
among the hills. Nor can we forget Blackmore, 
whose "Lorna Doone'* turned the eyes of the Eng- 
lish-speaking world toward the Exmoor wastes. 
Shelley's escapade at Barnstaple we have already 
mentioned and the cottage he occupied at Lynton 
still stands. No doubt much of the weird beauty 
that pervades his work entered his soul amidst the 
glorious surroundings — the sea, the hills and the 
vales — of the West Country. 

A pause at Cleeve Abbey near at hand gave 
us perhaps a better idea of the life of monastic days 
than any other we visited^ — and we saw all the great- 
er abbeys of Britain. In the majority of cases the 
abbey proper had been destroyed, but the church 
escaped, often through purchase by the citizens. At 
Cleeve the reverse has happened; the church has 
totally disappeared, but the abbey buildings are near- 
ly intact. As a well-informed writer puts it: 

"The whole life of the society can be lived 
over again with but little demands on the imagina- 
tion. We can see the dormitories in which they 
slept, the refectory where they fed, the abbot's par- 
ticular parlour and the room for accounts, the kitch- 

82 



RAMBLE'S IN THE WEST COUNTRY 

en, and even the archway through which their bodies 
went out to the grave. The church suffered from 
despoilers more than any other part of the abbey, and 
great is the loss to architecture. Otherwise we get 
a community of the Middle Ages preserved in all 
its essential surroundings, the refectory being in par- 
ticular a grand fifteenth-century hall." The ceiling 
of this great apartment is of the hammer-beam pat- 
tern, the beams richly carved, and, springing from 
oaken corbels, figures of angels with expanded wings. 
It brings one near indeed to the spirit of mon- 
astic days — this gray old ruin, through which sweep 
the wind and rain and where under foot the grass 
grows lush and green as it grows only in Eng- 
land — the spirit which the Latin legend over the 
gatehouse so vividly expresses, quaintly rendered 
thus: 

"Gate Open be 
To honest folk as free." 
And the gray-whiskered custodian, so rheumatic and 
feeble that his daughter, a husky peasant woman, 
guides visitors about the abbey, warmed up to us 
as we were about to leave and opened his heart 
about the ruin in which he dwelt and which he 
seemed to love. He told us its story in the broad 
West Country dialect and pointed out to us many 
things of curious interest that we otherwise should 

have overlooked. 

83 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 
The sky is clearing; the low sun flashes along 
the hill-crests and floods the Somerset landscape with 
etherial beauty, which we drink in as we skim 
swiftly along the smooth, wet road. We catch a 
final gleam of the ocean at Weston-super-Mare 
and pass a long row of imposing hotels. Then we 
are away for Bristol, the Queen City of the West 
Country. 



84 



VI 

ODD CORNERS OF THE WELSH BORDER 

There are few English castles where the spirit 
of medievalism lingers as at Berkeley and few that 
have darker deeds recorded in their long annals of 
crime. It has had a strange fascination for me ever 
since I read its story in my boyhood days, and the 
verse of the poet Gray had given the castle a weird 
association in my mind: 

**Mark the year and mark the night 

When Severn shall echo with affright; 

When shrieks of death through Berkeley's 
roofs shall ring. 

Shrieks of an agonizing king.*' 
It was therefore a keen disappointment to 
learn on arriving in the quiet Gloucestershire town 
that it was not a day when the castle was open to 
visitors. However, we do not regret this so much 
in retrospect. The castle, grim, many-towered, ivy- 
clad, the very embodiment of the days of chivalry, 
still lingers in memory, with nothing to disenchant 
its mystery and romance. The old keeper at the im- 
posing entrance was evidently sincere in his regret 

that the rule might not be suspended for our bene- 

85 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

fit — for indeed we had found such regulations not 
as the laws of the Medes and Persians, but there 
was no such good fortune here. "But do not fail," 
said he, "to view the castle from the meadows, for 
no finer sight will you find in England.*' 

If there be finer views of other English castles — 
a mere matter of opinion, after all — there can hard- 
ly be a better viewpoint than the Berkeley Mead- 
ows. It is a wide expanse of lawnlike meadowland 
lying alongside the castle, which stretches out its 
battlemented and turreted length against a back- 
ground of majestic trees; from these rises the square 
church-tower in stern outline against the bluest of 
English June skies. The scene indeed savors more 
of enchantment than reality, and the environment 
seems fitting to the historic pile where a king was 
done to death and which Shakespeare mentions more 
than once. The present owner is the twenty-seventh 
in direct descent from Robert Fitzhardinge, to whom 
the manor was originally granted and who built a 
large part of the present castle in the tenth century. 

The view from the castle keep is described by 
one who has written much of its legends and history : 
"Northwards and southwards the broad Vale of 
Berkeley, rich with verdure of pasture and wood- 
land, runs on into the far distance. To the east 
and southeast are the Cotswolds, rising abruptly 
here and there into bold, bare masses whose sides 

86 



ODD CORN'EiRS OF THE WELSH BORDER 

are clothed with beech woods, and anon retiring 
into lovely valleys which seem to invite the eye to 
range their recesses. On the west flows the broad 
estuary of the Severn, studded with many a white 
sail; beyond it are the dark wooded hills of the 
Forest of Dean, veiled by the smoke of its iron- 
works and collieries. Under the walls of the castle, 
on the north and west sides, the little town seems to 
nestle, as though seeking shelter and protection from 
the grim old fortress, which was probably its origin 
and has been its stay and support through so many 
generations.'* 

Berkeley has another claim to distinction aside 
from its castle, for here is the cottage where lived 
Jenner, whose discovery of vaccination placed under 
control the scourge that devastated Europe until 
quite recent times. The famous physician is buried 
in the churchyard. The church is of imposing di- 
mensions, with stained glass better than the aver- 
age and elaborate tombs of the Lords of Berkeley 
Castle. The bell tower is detached, standing some 
distance from the main structure. 

The highway from Bristol to Gloucester is one 
of the finest in the Kingdom, and we soon resumed 
our flight over it after the short detour to Berkeley. 
At the Bell Hotel in Gloucester we found mild ex- 
citement prevailing among the guests and servants, 
some of the latter standing about in brilliant liveries 

87 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

and powdered wigs. The manageress explained 
that the high sheriff and county judge were about to 
leave the hotel and that the gaudy attire we beheld 
disguised only the porter and head waiter, who had 
been fitted out in this manner to give due state to 
the occasion. During the delay in the departure 
of the distinguished guests we had the services of 
one of the gorgeous gentlemen at our luncheon. 
Finally the dignitaries descended the stair, the be- 
decked servants bowed them solemnly into a car- 
riage, and the porter in all his glory rode away be- 
side the driver. I dwell on this incident, trifling in 
itself, to illustrate the different status of such officials 
in England as compared with our own country. In 
America a dozen county judges and sheriffs might 
be at a hotel in a city the size of Gloucester with- 
out attracting much attention. In some respects the 
English way is preferable, since it invests the repre- 
sentatives of the law with a dignity quite lacking 
in the States. And in this connection we might no- 
tice that county judges in England receive salaries 
from three to five times as great as are paid to cor- 
responding officials on our side, thus commanding a 
high average of legal talent for the bench. 

The half-dozen miles between Gloucester and 
Tewkesbury are quickly done and we halt in front 
of a wide green, studded with gigantic trees, amidst 
which rises the huge bulk of a church almost as im- 

88 



ODD CORNEIRS OF THE WELSH BORDER 
posing as the cathedral that has barely faded from 
our view. But it lacks the gracefulness and perfect 
proportion of the Gloucester church and perhaps its 
most striking exterior feature is the arch over the 
western windows, so high and majestic as to remind 
one of Peterborough. The interior is mainly pon- 
derous Norman — rows of heavy pillars flanking the 
long nave and supporting massive rounded arches. 
The windows, however, are the lighter and more 
graceful creations of the Decorated Period, though 
the glass is mostly modern. Among the tombs is 
that of Prince Edward, son of Henry VI., who 
was cruelly slain in the battle of Tewkesbury, so 
fatal to the Lancastrian cause. Here, too, lies the 
"false, fleeting, perjured Clarence," of Shakespeare; 
and Somerset, executed by his captors after the battle. 
The abbey was marked for destruction by Henry 
VIII., who was deterred from his purpose by a 
public subscription. Tewkesbury is rather decadent, 
and has many houses in brick and timber as yet 
quite unspoiled by modern improvement. It is 
pleasantly situated on the banks of the classic Avon 
near its junction with the Severn, and the many- 
arched stone bridge over the former river is unus- 
ually picturesque. Half a mile farther a second 
bridge crosses the Severn, which lies in broad, still 
reaches dotted with small craft of every description. 

Over these bridges we hastened away toward 
89 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 
Hereford, following a level though sinuous road. 
The old-world quaintness of Ledbury attracted our 
attention. Its rectangular timber market cross, sup- 
ported on a colonnade of wooden pillars, is un- 
usual indeed. And nowhere else did we find finer 
specimens of Elizabethan half-timbered houses, 
though some of them were rather tawdry in recent 
applications of black and white paint. Such houses 
have become quite the rage and some owners have 
gone so far as to paint black stripes on common 
brick to represent the timbers. However, no such 
travesty as this is necessary in Ledbury — the town 
is overflowing with the genuine article — genuine 
though disfigured in some cases by the bad taste of 
the man with the paint pot. Church Lane, leading 
from the main street up a gentle slope to the church, 
is bordered with splendid examples of Elizabethan 
houses, quite unaltered since they left the builders* 
hands. At the end of the lane one sees a graceful 
spire standing apart from the church, which is quite 
unique in design. It has four sharply pitched roofs 
running parallel, with odd little minarets between 
them. The interior has the newness of recent res- 
toration and shows traces of different styles, from 
Norman to Perpendicular. Ledbury has an insti- 
tute which commemorates its association with Eliza- 
beth Barrett Browning, who passed her girlhood 
near the town. 

90 



ODD CO'RN'EIRS OF THE WELSH BORDER 

At Hereford we sought the cathedral, having 
missed the interior during a former visit. A small, 
bare-headed boy in a red sweater saw us pause be- 
fore the close and marked us as his legitimate prey. 
**ril take you into the Bishop's Palace," he said 
in such a matter-of-fact way that it disarmed our 
suspicions and we followed the youngster meekly 
enough, for with all our doing of cathedrals we had 
caught only glimpses of bishops' palaces, usually 
embowered in gardens and apparently quite inacces- 
sible. We had no opportunity to question our 
small guide as he rapidly led us through the palace 
grounds, but when he unhesitatingly rang at the 
door, we insisted on an explanation and learned that 
the bishop and his family were in London. Dur- 
ing their absence the palace was thown open to the 
public and our small friend was doubtless improving 
the opportunity to put cathedral visitors under obli- 
gations to himself. 

We were admitted and wandered about at 
will. It is a rambling old house and indicates that 
a bishop occupies about the same plane in his do- 
mestic appointments as a prosperous member of the 
nobility, among whom, in fact, he takes a high rank. 
The house was sumptuously furnished and had sev- 
eral great rooms with high decorated ceilings and 
windows that looked out on the pleasant grounds, 

bright with flowers and shrubbery. The study 

91 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

pleased us most, with its high bookshelves about the 
walls and tall mullioned bow windows which open 
almost directly on the Wye. It was easy to see why 
the English bishops nearly all complain that their 
salaries, though apparently large, are hardly ade- 
quate to the state they are expected to maintain; 
and why, as in the case of an American ambassador, 
a private fortune is often necessary to enable the 
recipient of such an honor to pay the legitimate ^- 
penses. Our picture will show, perhaps better than 
any description, the beauty of the river front of the 
palace, with the fine trees and cathedral tower in 
the background. We had only a moment to look 
about the cathedral, since the closing hour was near- 
ly at hand. However, we missed little, for Here- 
ford Cathedral has few historic associations and re- 
cent restoration gives it an almost new appearance. 
It is built of red sandstone, which gives the interior 
a rather warm tone, accentuated by highly-colored 
modern windows. 

A pause for the night at Ludlow, where we 
arrived after a run of an hour or two through the 
rich pasture lands along the Welsh Border, gave 
us an opportunity of renewing our pleasant associa- 
tions with that fine old town. But as we were to 
visit Ludlow thrice before the close of our pilgrim- 
age, I shall leave our impressions and discoveries for 
later consideration. 

92 



ODD CORNEIRS OF THE WELSH BORDER 

The road from Ludlow to Bridgnorth is — or 
rather was — not a first-class one. Road conditions 
in Britain change so rapidly since the advent of the 
motor that one can scarcely speak of them in the 
present tense. As we found it, poorly surfaced, 
narrow and winding, it was not to be compared with 
the highway along the border. Bridgnorth is an 
ancient market town, famous for its cattle fair, which 
has been held yearly since 1226. The service at 
the Crown Inn, where we stopped for luncheon 
was excellent, and the moderate charge proved 
Bridgnorth off the beaten tourist track, a special 
rate not yet being established for the infrequent mo- 
torists. It was market day and the town was 
crowded with country people. The ample market 
square was filled with booths, and goods of every 
description were offered for sale. A socialist ora- 
tor — a common nuisance in England — was harang- 
uing the people, who crowded the streets so closely 
that we could get through only with difficulty. 
That motors are not so common in Bridgnorth was 
apparent, and a crowd collected about the car in 
the hotel stableyard. The general expression was 
hostile, and many instances were related where *'one 
of the things'* had worked disaster with skittish 
horses. 

We made our escape without entering into the 
discussion and dropped down the almost precipi- 

93 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

tous hill to the Severn bridge. The road is a 
charming one, with wooded hills rising sharply on 
one hand and the broad Severn lying far beneath 
on the other. At Shifnal a policeman, in response 
to our inquiry, directed us to the byway leading to 
the village of Tong, some three miles distant. Here, 
according to one well qualified to judge, is the "most 
interesting example of early Perpendicular architec- 
ture in Shropshire — a section famous for interesting 
churches." But it is better known through its as- 
sociation with Little Nell in "Old Curiosity Shop,** 
and Dickens' description shows that the appearance 
of the church before its restoration was quite differ- 
ent from today: 

"The church was old and grey, with ivy cling- 
ing to the walls and round the porch. It was a 
very quiet place, as such a place should be, save 
for the cawing of the rooks, who had built their 
nests among the branches of some tall trees. It was 
a very aged, ghostly place. The church had been 
built many hundreds of years ago and once had a 
convent or monastery attached; for arches in ruins, 
remains of oriel windows, and fragments of black- 
ened walls were yet standing." It is still old and 
gray, but no longer ghostly and ruinous. It was 
far from lonely, for a crowd of trippers was being 
shown about by the caretaker when we arrived. 

The tombs of Tong Church, with their effigies 

94 



ODD CORNEIRS OF THE WELSH BORDER 

and brasses, are remarkably perfect, and one of 
them must be very ancient, for it bears the figure of 
a crusader in chain mail. The images escaped de- 
struction, it is said, because of the friendship of 
Cromwell for the Stanleys, who were adherents of 
the Parliament. In the church are buried several 
of the Vernons, whom the madcap Dorothy gave to 
eternal fame, for they had little else to rescue them 
from the oblivion that overwhelmed such a host of 
unremembered squires and knights. Dorothy's sis- 
ter, Margaret, is buried with her husband, Sir Ed- 
ward Stanley, who came into possession of Tong 
Castle through his wife. The church also has a 
remarkable library of black-letter books, some of 
them almost as old as the church itself, and a stu- 
pendous bell, weighing two tons, hangs in its tower. 
The village well accords with the church — a 
quiet place half hidden by trees and shrubbery, 
while the ivy and blooming vines give a touch of 
color to the gray walls. The tiny gardens are bril- 
liant with old-fashioned flowers and the air is laden 
with their sweetness. Amidst such surroundings are 
scattered the pleasant old timbered cottages, with 
thatched roofs and diamond-paned lattice windows. 
The original castle has disappeared and has been 
replaced by a large Georgian house — a Moorish- 
looking mansion with domed roofs and pinnacles, 

yet rather picturesque, despite the fact that it out- 

95 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

rages good architectural taste. It is in ill accord 
with the unspoiled little village; for altogether, Tong, 
with its church and associations, is one of the most 
delightful nooks and thoroughly typical of rural Eng- 
land at its best. 

There are other associations in the neighbor- 
hood of Tong that may attract anyone especially in- 
terested in curious bits of English history, for near 
at hand is Boscobel House and its Royal Oak. In 
my youthful days, I read in one of the old-fashioned 
Sunday school books — many of which were then 
imported from England and were written by ortho- 
dox royalists — the story of the miraculous escape 
of His Gracious Majesty Charles II. from the wicked 
rebels who sought to lay violent hands on the 
"Lord's Anointed.'* I looked on the honest 
country people of Boscobel as direct instruments of 
Providence in preserving the sacred life of the king, 
and fairly held my breath with fear and excitement 
when I read that the Puritan troopers rode beneath 
the very tree in which the monarch was concealed. 
Even when sadly disenchanted by the knowledge 
that if ever rascal escaped his due it was when 
Charles Stuart dodged his pursuers, the romance of 
the old story lingered and I always had a desire 
to see Boscobel House and the Royal Oak. 

After leaving Tong we were only a few min- 
utes in the shady lanes until we drew up in front 

96 



ODD CORNEiRS OF THE WELSH BORDER 

of the ancient manor and found it a shrine for the 
English tripper, though the name of no American 
had been registered in its visitors' book. The house 
is quite unaltered and of itself would be worth a 
visit as an unusually good specimen of early English 
domestic architecture, for it dates from 1540. The 
walls are stuccoed between heavy oaken posts at 
the corners and beams at the line of the floors. The 
huge chimney, mullioned windows and other touches 
indicate that it was a gentleman's residence. Inside 
there are several fine rooms, with much oak carving 
and paneling, though in the dining-room, rather the 
best of all, the oak has been painted. There are 
a good many portraits and relics of the king, more 
or less authentic, which are shown with a proper 
degree of reverence. In the attic floor is the en- 
trance to a small secret chamber reputed as one of 
the hiding-places of the king, though no doubt or- 
iginally planned for a "p^^st hole," as the Puritans 
called such places of concealment. 

The farm-wife who cared for the house, and who 
was glad to see visitors, had come to reverence the 
king as the saint that the old chronicles picture 
him and had a full stock of the traditions of the 
place. She pointed out the identical tree which 
sheltered his Sacred Majesty, though the prosaic 
and unimpressionable Baedeker declares that it van- 
ished long ago — which we ventured to hint, only 

97 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

to be met with proper scorn. To impress us with 
the goodness and generosity of the king, she related 
that the pension he settled on his preservers and their 
heirs forever is still paid to the descendants of the 
Penderels by an assessment on the parish — charac- 
teristic indeed of Charles, who always rewarded ser- 
vices if he could do so at the expense of some one 
else. We purchased a quaint book at the house — a 
facsimile reprint of an account of the events at Bos- 
cobel, published after the Restoration and dedicated 
to the king. As a curious example of the depraved 
lickspittle attitude of his flatterers toward the person 
of the monarch — a spirit not altogether extinct to- 
day, for that matter — I give a few sentences from the 
author's dedication: 

"I humbly beg your Majesties pardon, being 
conscious to myself of my utter incapacity to ex- 
press, either your unparallel'd valour in the day of 
contending, or (which is a vertue far less usual for 
Kings) your strong and even mind in the time of 
your sufferings. From which sublime endow- 
ments of Your Most Heroick Majesty I derive these 
comforts to my self. That whoever undertakes to 
reach at your perfections, must fall short as well as 
I, though not so much. And now, on my bended 
knees, let me joyfully congratulate his restored Ma- 
jesty, and humbly offer him this short and hearty 
wish, O KING, LIVE FOR EVER." 

98 



ODD CORNEIRS OF THE WELSH BORDER 

Bidding Boscobel Manor farewell, we pause 
for a hasty glance at the scant ruin of White Ladies, 
an old-time nunnery standing quite apart in a field 
near by; then we retrace our way to the main road 
leading through Tong to Newmarket and Market 
Drayton. The latter town should be of consider- 
able interest to an Englishman, since here was the 
home of Robert Clive, who, according to a well- 
known historian, **will ever be remembered as the 
man who laid deeply the foundations of our Indian 
Empire and who at a time of national despondency 
restored the tarnished honor of British arms." Aside 
from this, there is little to interest the wayfarer save 
several fine Elizabethan houses and a mighty church 
that quite overshadows the town and country. 

We are soon away for Shrewsbury, the ever 
charming county town of Shropshire, fleeting over 
as fine a road as ever tempted the winged wheels of 
a motor car. It is nearly deserted, straight, broad 
and level, and it is quite too late to fear the minions 
of the law — but this is not a record of miles per 
hour. Suffice it to say that very shortly we stop at 
the sign of the Raven in Old Salop. 

One could never grow weary of the old town, 
and we saw another phase in its life and activity on 
a Saturday evening. The whole population seemed 
to have turned loose, and the brilliantly lighted main 
street was quite metropolitan. The quaint old 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

fronts had a rather odd and out-of-place look in the 
glare of the electric light; the narrow, dimly lit side 
streets were more in accord with the spirit of the 
place. The shops were crowded and on the whole 
seemed surprisingly up to date and well stocked 
for a town of thirty thousand. 

The Sunday follov/ing was as quiet as the ev- 
ening before had been animated, and was as per- 
fect as an English June day can be. In the after- 
noon we were off for a run, with scarcely any defi- 
nite point in viev/, though a jaunt of an hour or 
two brought us in front of Lichfield Cathedral just 
as the afternoon service was beginning. We joined 
the rather diminutive body of worshippers who oc- 
cupied but a small part of the great church. We 
were perhaps quite as intent on the interior — a very 
epic in warm red sandstone — as upon the dreary 
chant of the litany. A thorough restoration has 
been made recently and an air of newness prevails, 
but no one interested in cathedral architecture will 
miss Lichfield — in some respects the most harmon- 
ious and best proportioned of them all. We have 
seen the town before, but not the large square house 
before which we pause, for a moment, and which 
bears a bronze tablet to the memory of its one-time 
occupant, Erasmus Darwin, grandfather of Charles 
Darwin. 

Our route to Shrewsbury was over one of the 
100 



ODD CORlSTEiRS OF THE WELSH BORDER 

Roman Watling streets, straight as an arrow's flight 
much of the way and often bordered by giant trees. 
Never did the English countryside appear more 
charming in all our wanderings through it. There 
was a continual succession of green fields, vast parks, 
clear streams and wooded hills, with an occasional 
retired village — for on our return we avoided Wol- 
verhampton with its rough streets and trams — to lend 
variety to the rural beauty through which we passed 
until we again skirted the Severn and re-entered the 
town. 



101 



VII 

A WEEK IN SOUTH WALES 

We leave Shrewsbury by the Welsh bridge for 
a week among the rugged hills and valleys of South- 
ern Wales, a country rich in relics of antiquity and 
romantic associations. We sweep along the fine 
highway to Welshpool and from thence, a little 
farther, to Montgomery, a decayed, out-of-the-way 
town in the hills. A fragment of its castle is perched 
high on the precipitous hill commanding the town 
and looking far over the vale of the serpentine Sev- 
ern. The Severn, like the Wye, is the most sinuous 
of rivers, and there are few more inspiring prospects 
than its long shining folds winding through the ver- 
dant valley as seen from the castle walls. Mont- 
gomery, quiet and unheroic as it is today, has a 
stirring past. It took its name from Roger de Mont- 
gomerie, "Second in command in the army of his 
kinsman, William of Normandy,** though the grim, 
almost inaccessible castle antedated his possession 
of the tov^. Fierce indeed was the strife between 
the Normans and the wild Welsh tribes, and the 
fair vale of the Severn was the scene of many a 
bloody conflict. The castle, though with varying 

102 



A WEEK IN SOUTH WALES 

owners and fortunes, continued a stronghold to the 
day of its surrender to the soldiers of the Common- 
wealth; after which nothing remained but blackened 
walls — another added to the long list of feudal for- 
tresses "destroyed by Cromwell." 

The road southward from Newtown leads 
through as wild a tract of country as we saw in 
Britaia Not the Scotch Highlands or the hills at 
the headwaters of the Welsh Wye equal it in lone- 
liness and seeming remoteness. But it is more pic- 
turesque than the localities just named, for the hills 
are mostly wooded, and the shallow, sparkling river 
which we followed — though usually far above it — 
runs through a narrow valley diversified in spots with 
trees and bits of meadow land. For eight miles out 
of Newtown we encountered a continually rising 
grade, which brought us to a narrow upland road 
running along the hillsides, which drop in almost pre- 
cipitous slopes to the river far below. The road 
twists along the edge of the hills, at times in almost 
circular curves, and too close to the sharp declivity 
at its side for one's ease of mind. At Llandrindod 
Wells we had passed the wildest part of the road 
and we noted with surprise the handsome houses 
and palatial hotels of a town we had scarcely heard 
of before, but which has recently become the queen 
of Welsh inland resorts. The declining sun shot 
his rays along the purple hilltops that encircle the 

103 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

place and the shadows were already long in the 
pine-clad valleys. It was growing late, but after 
a hurried consultation we decided against the pre- 
tentious hotels of Llandrindod Wells. 

We dashed across the arched stone bridge 
over the Wye at Builth Wells and brought sharply 
up in front of the Lion Hotel, which, standing 
squarely across the way, seemed to bar farther pro- 
gress, and we had little choice but to stop for the 
night. The Lion's accommodations are not elabor- 
ate by any means, but it was quite too late to go 
farther. Though Builth has mineral wells and a 
*'pump house," a mile from the town, there is noth- 
ing of the resort hotel about the Lion; on the con- 
trary, it is the plainest of old-country inns, appar- 
ently a haven for fishermen rather than health seek- 
ers. Its walls were covered with the antique hand- 
colored prints so characteristic of English inns; its 
mantels were loaded with queer pieces of bric-a- 
brac; tallow candles lighted the bedrooms. The 
electric push-button had not superseded the tas- 
seled rope by the bedside, with which one jangles 
a bell hung on a coiled spring in the hallway. But 
it is spacious and has an air of old-world comfort 
about it — little modern except its motor garage. 

After all, we were fortunate in our pause at 
Builth, for we beheld the most glorious of sunsets 
on the long reaches of the Wye as it enters the 

104 



A WEEK IN SOUTH WALES 

town from the west. The river dances down the 
valley in a series of broad, shallow rapids, resting 
itself here and there in a quiet lakelike pool. The 
sunset hues were subdued rather than brilliant; pink 
and salmon tints were reflected in the stream as we 
stood on the bridge and looked up the quiet valley, 
and these faded into hazy amethyst as the twilight 
advanced. It was a scene of quiet, pastoral beauty 
amidst surroundings that do not lack for legend and 
antiquity, and altogether left a pleasing recollec- 
tion of an unattractive Welsh town which in itself 
has little of the picturesque. 

We were away early in the morning following 
the Wye Valley road, with its vistas of hill and 
river, as far as Llyswen, where we crossed the hills 
to Brecon. Our stop here was short, as our route 
was to bring us again to this interesting old town in 
a few days. We did not often find a more delight- 
ful road than that down the Usk Valley to Crick- 
howell, Abergavenny and Caerleon. Its excellent 
surface and long sweeping grades might be a temp- 
tation to speed, but it is quite neutralized by the 
constant beauty of the scenery and interest of the 
country. On either hand are the low Welsh moun- 
tains, wooded to the very crest, and at times far 
below we caught the gleam of the river — though 
so shrunken as to scarcely deserve the name — leap- 
ing and flashing over its stone-strewn bed. Here 

105 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

and there a quiet village nestled unobtrusively by 
the roadside; at Crickhowell we found a larger but 
somnolent town whose huge church is crowded with 
memorials of the old Welsh warriors. Even larg- 
er and more impressive is the great Priory Church 
at Abergavenny, whose square battlemented tower 
one might think had been built to withstand the 
sieges of the devil, even as the Welsh castles were 
made almost impregnable against the attack of man. 
No quainter town did we pass than Usk; it must 
have been much the same when the Conqueror sent 
his legions to overawe the Welsh tribes, save that 
its castle, then no doubt a lordly fortress, is now a 
decayed ivy-mantled ruin. Its greater importance 
in years gone by is attested by its mighty priory 
church, ill in keeping with the hamlet that clusters 
about it today. According to tradition, two kings 
of England were bom in Usk — Richard III. and 
Edward IV. — and Roman remains indicate an im- 
portant station on the spot almost at the dawn of 
the Christian Era. 

But what shall one say of Caerleon, farther 
down the valley, now practically a suburb of New- 
port, where dim legends still linger to the effect 
that it was once King Arthur's capital and that 
here was the castle 

106 



A WEEK IN SOUTH WALES 

"From whose high towers they say 
Men saw the goodly hills of Somerset, 
And white sails flying o'er a yellow sea.'* 
A prosaic historian, however, declares that in 
all likelihood the King Arthur legend sprang from 
Roman ruins which some hundreds of years ago 
existed in Caerleon in great magnificence. At any 
rate, modern Caerleon has no trace of the regal 
capital of the early king — a bald, unattractive town 
close upon the Usk, now broadened into a con- 
siderable stream, dull with the taint from the manu- 
factories on its banks. 

At Newport we are entering a different order 
of things, brought about by the great industrial de- 
velopment in South Wales due to the coal and 
iron mines and large shipping interests. In the last 
century the population of the town has grown from 
one to seventy thousand. The old order is indeed 
dead here. There is no effort to attract the tour- 
ist, and the castle, almost the sole relic of antiquity, 
is crumbling into unhindered ruin as it sits far above 
the drear expanse of mud left by the receding tide. 
We hasten through the town — we may see a hun- 
dred such at home — and seek from a friendly po- 
liceman the road to Caerphilly, a village off in the 
hills w^hich we know has no new-world counterpart. 
For ten miles from Newport we wend our way 

over a dusty, ill-kept byroad with sharp turns and 

107 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

Steep grades, and before we come to the village we 
see from some distance the broken towers and bat- 
tlements of Caerphilly Castle. We pass through 
the gateway in the straggling walls and the scene of 
desolation and massive ruin that Hes before us is 
hardly paralleled in impressiveness among British 
castles, unless it be by Corfe in Dorset. A great 
round tower, perhaps fifty feet in diameter, with 
walls ten feet thick, split as by a thunder stroke, 
greets our eyes. Half of it is still standing, though 
leaning many feet from the vertical, and the other 
half lies in mighty fragments of masonry at its base. 
There had been four such towers, but only one is 
comparatively entire. The walls, though much 
shattered in places, still serve to give an idea of 
the vast extent of the ancient castle. The huge ban- 
queting hall has been roofed and recalls in a rather 
pathetic way the rude magnificence of its feudal state. 
But words quite fail to describe Caerphilly — 
such a maze of grim walls and towers, such a net- 
work of ruinous apartments, piled deep with debris, 
overawe and confuse one. Only the antiquarian 
may painfully decipher the plan of the castle and 
in imagination reconstruct it as it was when it stood 
a bulwark between warring nations. But to the or- 
dinary beholder it will remain a mystery set in the 
midst of the barren hills, and he will hardly care to 
resolve the impressive pile into its original parts. It 

108 



A WEEK IN SOUTH WALES 

will seem an entity to him — it is hard to think it 
otherwise than it appears today. Its romance is 
deepened by the obscurity of its history — for the 
story of Caerphilly has many blanks and breaks. 
There is no record of when it was first begun and 
there is doubt as to when it was finally destroyed. 
Some say the ruin is the work of Cromwell, and 
it surely seems worthy of that master of the art of 
wrecking castles; others declare that it was aban- 
doned at the time of the Commonwealth, having 
been destroyed by Shakespeare's "Wild irregular 
Glendower," in his endless conflicts with the Eng- 
lish. 

But after all, does it not savor even more of 
romance that mystery enshrouds the past of the stu- 
pendous structure whose scanty remnants encircle 
us? Why call upon prosaic history to dispel the 
charm that emanates from the gray ruin, half hid- 
den by its mantle of ivy and dashed here and there 
with the purple valerian and yellow wall-flower? 
Such would be folly indeed as we sit on the soft 
green turf of the court and contemplate the fantas- 
tic outlines in the glow of the sunset; when all is 
silence save for the angry brawls of the rooks, which 
have entered into full possession — reincarnations, 
perhaps, of the erstwhile contentious owners. 

But the spell of Caerphilly dissolves and a 

different world surrounds us as we enter the broad 

109 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

modem streets of Cardiff and pause before the 
American-looking Park Hotel. Cardiff as a vil- 
lage antedates the Conquest, but as a metropolis 
of two hundred thousand, it is quite recent. One 
hundred years ago it had a population of a thous- 
and; in 1837, of ten thousand; and it is easy 
to see that the traces of antiquity in such a city must 
be few. Its future was assured when the first Mar- 
quis of Bute hazarded his entire fortune in the con- 
struction of the extensive docks from which ship- 
ments of coal and iron are now made. It was a 
lucky throw of the die for the nobleman, for today 
his grandson owns the greater part of Cardiff and 
is one of the wealthiest men in the Kingdom. 

Cardiff Castle — forever associated with the 
dark fate of Prince Robert — has been replaced by 
a Moorish palace — or rather, an incongruous mix- 
ture in which the Moorish predominates. It is easy 
to gain admittance to this imposing palace, where 
art has been entirely unhampered by cost, and if 
garishness and incongruity sometimes prevail, in- 
terest is nevertheless continual. There is a frag- 
ment of the keep of the old castle in the grounds 
and Duke Robert's dungeon is incorporated into the 
new structure — a dark, vaultlike cavity in the walls 
where for thirty years the unfortunate prince, the 
direct heir to the throne of the Conqueror, was 
kept a close prisoner by his brother Henry. Legend 

110 



*^i 




A WEEK IN SOUTH WALES 

has it that his eyes were put out because of an at- 
tempt to escape and that he died in the dungeon at 
the age of eighty years. 

Cardiff's municipal buildings are a delight; 
white stone palaces standing in ample grounds with 
wide pleasant approaches — altogether models of 
what civic structures ought to be. Immense and 
busy as it is, there is little in Cardiff to detain one 
on such a pilgrimage as ours, and we were away 
before noon on the Swansea road. 

Llandaff is but three miles from Cardiff, and 
we reached it by a short detour. Its cathedral, re- 
cently restored, is probably the most interesting of 
Welsh churches excepting St. David's. The site 
has been occupied by a church ever since the year 
600, though the present structure dates from early 
Norman times. It fell into complete ruin after the 
time of the Commonwealth. One chronicler de- 
clares that "Cromwell's men turned the nave into an 
ale house, penned calves in the choir and fed pigs at 
the font," though they must have been rather unor- 
thodox Puritans to countenance the ale house. No 
attempt was made to preserve the fine church from 
decay until about two hundred years later, and so 
deplorable was its condition that the task of restor- 
ation seemed a well-nigh impossible one. Still, after 
much difficulty, the work was happily carried out, 
and the twin towers — one a slender spire and its corn- 
Ill 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 
panion square-topped with Gothic finials — present 
a very unusual though not unpleasant effect. Inside 
there is a mixture of Norman and early English 
styles, and some beautiful Decorated work. There 
are three paintings by Dante Gabriel Rossetti that 
arrest attention at once — done in that artist's best 
style long ere he was known to fame. The windows, 
though modern, are of unusual excellence, having 
been designed by Burne-Jones and other notable 
artists. Near by are the ruins of the bishop's palace, 
whose fortresslike walls tell of a time when the 
churchman and the warrior went hand in hand. Its 
destruction some six hundred years ago is attributed 
to Owen Glendwr, whose record for castle-smash- 
ing in Wales is second only to that of Cromwell. 
The village of Llandaff is still rural and pretty; it is 
quite clear of the skirts of Cardiff, being separated 
from the city by the River Taff. The old stone 
cross still stands in front of the palace and there is 
now little to remind one of the big modern city near 
at hand, which may one day absorb its ancient but 
diminutive neighbor. 

The Swansea road looks well enough on the 
map, but our recollections of it are far from pleas- 
ing. Dusty and rough, and crowded with traffic 
and tram lines in many places, it wends through a 
cheerless and often uninteresting country. It passes 
frequent mining towns straggling along for con- 

112 



A WEEK IN SOUTH WALES 
siderable distances and there were many drunken 
men reeling on the streets. It was market day at 
Cowbridge and the village was filled with country- 
men, many of whom treated our right to the road 
with supreme indifference. One fellow in a broad- 
brimmed slouch hat that made him look like an 
American cowboy, and who was carrying a black 
bottle that might hold a gallon, saluted us with owl- 
like gravity and brought the car to a sharp stop by 
standing directly in our way. 

While getting rid of our would-be acquaint- 
ance, we cast about to find a place for luncheon and 
soon lighted on the sign of the Bear, the sole inn, 
according to Baedeker. It was some distance to 
the next town and we decided to patronize the 
Bear, though its outer appearance filled us with mis- 
givings. But if its outward aspect inspired doubt, 
words fail in speaking of the inside. The hand- 
book of the Royal Automobile Club in setting 
forth the delights of a tour in America pays its com- 
pliments to our rural Bonifaces in this wise: "The 
hotel accommodation in country districts is often 
very poor and dirty," all of which may be painfully 
true. But in competition for distinction in these 
particulars, the Bear would certainly not be dis- 
tanced by any American rival. Perhaps the con- 
fusion and disarray was partly due to the market- 
day rush, but the grime and dirt that prevailed 

113 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 
everywhere seemed as ancient as the ramshackle old 
house itself. The dining-room was a large apart- 
ment with many long tables of boards laid on 
trestles — an arrangement, no doubt, to accommo- 
date the patronage of market day — and the rem- 
nants of the dinner were still heaped upon them in 
dire confusion. A glance at the meal placed be- 
fore us and at the dirty hands of the waiting-girl 
was enough — we left the provender untouched and 
summarily departed from the table. With difficulty 
we got the attention of the barmaid, who also acted 
as cashier, settled our score, and sallied forth din- 
nerless upon the King's highway. 

Threading our way carefully through the 
streets of Neath, several miles farther on, with little 
thought save to get away from the bad road and 
unpleasant surroundings, we caught a glimpse, 
down a side street, of an ivy-clad ruin of great ex- 
tent. We followed the rough rubbish-covered lane 
that leads directly to the entrance gate of Neath 
Abbey, as it proved to be. There was no care- 
taker in charge, but two or three workmen were 
engaged in cleaning away the debris, which was 
several feet deep in many of the roofless apartments. 
Everything indicated that once the abbey had 
stood in the pleasantest of valleys on the bank of a 
clear, placid little river; but the coaling industry, 
which flings its pall over everything in Southern 

114 



A WEEK IN SOUTH WALES 

Wales, had played sad havoc with the sylvan re- 
treat of the old Cistercian monks. Heaps of rub- 
bish dotted the uncared-for green about the place. 
Coal trains rattled on the railroad near at hand. 
The spot where the abbey now stands so forlornly 
is the heart of the suburban slums of Neath, and so 
isolated and forgotten is it that few pilgrims come 
to view its melancholy beauty. For it is beautiful — 
does not our picture tell the story? — the moulder- 
ing walls hung with masses of ivy, the fine doorways, 
the great groups of mullioned windows and the 
high chimneys, green to the very tops, all combine 
to charm the beholder despite the unlovely sur- 
roundings. The workmen told us that the abbey 
belonged to Lord Somebody — we have quite for- 
gotten — and that he was going to clean up the 
premises and make necessary repairs. The craze 
now so prevalent in Britain for preserving every 
ancient ruin had extended even to Neath Abbey 
and perchance its titled owner will beautify the 
surroundings and the fine ruin may yet become a 
shrine for pilgrims — that the motor-car will bring. 
Swansea — Swansy, they call it — had always 
brought to my mind, I hardly know why, the idea 
of a seaside resort town; but never was precon- 
ceived notion more erroneous. If there is a blacker, 
uglier, more odoriferous town of the size in the 
Kingdom, I do not recollect where it is. Here 

115 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

are the greatest copper smelting works in the world 
and from these come the pungent, stifling odors 
that so unpleasantly pervade the city. Here, too, 
is the great steel plant of the Siemens Company 
and many allied industries. And yet there was a 
time when Swansea had at least the promise of a 
resort town before it, when the poet Landor de- 
clared that "Italy has a fine climate but that of 
Swansea is better; that it is the only spot in Britain 
where one may have warmth without wet." Then 
it had six hundred people, but now its population 
exceeds one hundred thousand. We had no de- 
sire to linger and rapidly climbed the long steep 
hill that leads to the highland road to Carmarthen. 
We soon left behind us the smoke and grime of the 
colleries and smelting-works, and the road over 
which we rapidly coursed took us through a rather 
pretty rural section, though the hills are numerous 
and steep. 

It was late when we came into Carmarthen, a 
bare, drab-colored town, but withal rather more 
prosperous-looking than the average small town of 
South Wales. The thirty-two miles to Haverford- 
west swept by too rapidly to permit us to see the 
country other than as a fleeting panorama. Just as 
the twilight faded into dark we came sharply into 
Haverfordwest and with grave misgivings halted 
at the Castle Hotel. Here we must stop, willy 

116 



A WEEK IN SOUTH WALES 

nilly, for there was nothing that promised better in 
many miles. But to apply the cautious Yorkshire- 
man's expression to the Castle Hotel, "It might be 
worse," and we were willing to let the uncomfor- 
table feather-beds and the dingy candle-lit rooms 
overlooking the stable yard, be atoned for by the 
excellent dinner that our landlady prepared at so 
late an hour. 

We did not linger at Haverfordwest on the 
following morning, though perhaps the castle and 
the priory church might well have detained us. The 
castle, which crowns the terribly steep hill to which 
the town seems to cling somewhat precariously, has 
been reduced to a county jail — or gaol, as the En- 
glish have it — and thus robbed of much of its 
romance. Still, it is an impressive old fortress, domi- 
nating the town with its huge bulk, and it has figured 
much in the annals of Pembrokeshire. 

Haverfordwest has a history antedating the 
Conquest. It was undoubtedly a stopping-place for 
the troops of pilgrims who in early days journeyed 
to the sacred shrine of St. David's, the Ultima 
Thule of Southern Wales, sixteen miles to the west, 
following a tortuous road over many steep and 
barren hills. The railroad ends at Haverfordwest 
and no doubt the facilities for reaching St. David's 
a thousand years ago were quite as good as today, 
the daily mail cart and coach twice a week in season 

117 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

being the only regular means of transportation. No 
wonder in days when strenuous journeys to distant 
shrines were believed to be especially meritorious, 
two trips to St. David's were allowed to confer the 
spiritual benefit of a single pilgrimage to Rome itself. 

And we ourselves are pilgrims to St. David's 
shrine — not by the slow horseback cavalcade of 
old days, or the more modern coach, but by motor 
car. Our forty-horse engine makes quick work of 
the precipitous hill out of Haverfordwest and carries 
us without lagging over the dozen long steep hills 
on the road to the ancient town. Shortly before 
reaching St. David's the road drops down to the 
ocean side, but the sea is hidden by a long ridge 
of stones and pebbles piled high by the inrushing 
waters. The tide was far out and we saw no finer 
beach on the Welsh coast than the one that lay 
before us as we stood on the stony drift. A great 
expanse of yellow — almost literally golden — sand 
ran down to a pale green sea, which lapped it in 
silvery sunlit ripples, so quiet and peaceful was the 
day. But one could not but think of the scope af- 
forded for the wild play of the ocean on stormy 
days — how the scene must be beyond all description 
"When the great winds shoreward blow. 

And the salt tides seaward flow; 

Where the wild white horses play. 

Champ and chafe and toss in the spray." 
118 



A WEEK IN SOUTH WALES 
We left the car near the ancient stone cross 
in the deserted market place of St. David's and 
sought the cathedral, which is strangely situated in 
a deep dell, the top of the Norman tower being 
only a little above the level of the market place. 
The cathedral has been recently restored, more per- 
haps on account of its historic past than any present 
need for it, but the bishop's palace, once one of 
the most elaborate and extensive in the Kingdom, 
stands in picturesque decay, beyond any hope of 
rehabilitation. As to the old-time importance of 
St. David's as contrasted with its present isolation, 
the words of an enthusiastic English writer may 
perhaps serve better than my own: 

"Centuries ago St. David's bishop had seven 
palaces for his pleasure; now he does not dwell in 
his own city. Of old the offerings at St. David's 
shrine were divided every Saturday among the 
priests by the dishful, to save time in counting the 
coins; now a few pounds weekly is accounted a 
good collection total. Ancient kings came hither in 
state to confess their sins; in this travelling age only 
the enterprising tourist comes to the city at all. 
Eight or nine roads converged upon the little place 
on its headland of about three miles square, but 
the majority are now no better than humble weather- 
worn lanes. The Atlantic winds sweep across the 
depression by the Alan brook in which St. David's 

119 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

Cathedral, the extensive ruins of the bishop's palace, 
and the many other fragments of St. David's 
glorious prime nestle among trees, with the humble 
cottages of the city itself surrounding them as if 
they loved them. Even the dilapidation here is so 
graceful that one would hardly wish it altered into 
the trim and rather smug completeness of many an 
English cathedral with its close." 

The cathedral is extremely interesting and made 
doubly so by an intelligent verger whom we located 
with considerable difficulty. Pilgrims to St. David's 
were apparently too infrequent to justify the good 
man's remaining constantly on duty as in larger 
places, and a placard forbidding fees, may have 
dampened his zeal in looking for visitors. But we 
found him at last in his garden, and he did his part 
well; nothing curious or important in the history 
of the cathedral was forgotten by him. The lean- 
ing Norman pillars, the open roof of Irish oak, the 
gorgeous ceiling with its blood-red and gold decor- 
ations, and many relics discovered during the restor- 
ation, were pointed out and properly descanted up- 
on. But one might write volumes of a shrine which 
kings once underwent many hardships to visit, 
among them Harold the Saxon and his conqueror, 
William of Normandy. Nothing but a visit can do 
it justice, and with the advent of the motor car, old 
St. David's will again be the shrine of an increas- 

120 



A WEEK IN SOUTH WALES 

ing number of pilgrims, though their mission and 
personel be widely different from the wayfarers of 
early days. 

There is only one road out of the lonely little 
town besides that which brought us thither and we 
were soon upon the stony and uncomfortable high- 
way to Cardigan. Here we found roadmaking 
in primitive stages; the broken stone had been 
loosely scattered along the way waiting for the 
heavy-wheeled carts of the farmers to serve the pur- 
pose of the steam roller. The country is pitifully 
barren and the little hovels — always gleaming with 
whitewash — were later called to mind by those in 
Ireland. There are no great parks with fine man- 
sions to relieve the monotony of the scene. Only 
fugitive glimpses of the ocean from the upland road 
occasionally lend a touch of variety. At Fishguard, 
a mean little town with a future before it — for it is 
now the Welsh terminus of the Great Western 
Railway's route to Ireland — we paused in the 
crowded market square and a courteous policeman 
approached us, divining that we needed directions. 

**The road to Cardigan? Straight ahead down 
the hill." 

**It looks pretty steep," we suggested. 

"Yes, but nothing to the one you must go up 

out of the town. Just like the roofs of those houses 

121 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

there, and the road rough and crooked. Yes, this 
is all there is of Fishguard; pretty quiet place except 
on market days." 

We thanked the officer and cautiously de- 
cended the hill before us. We then climbed much 
the steepest and most dangerous hill we found in all 
the twelve thousand or more miles covered by our 
wanderings. To our dismay, a grocer's cart across 
the narrow road compelled us to stop midway on 
the precipitous ascent, but the motor proved equal 
to the task and we soon looked back down the fright- 
ful declivity with a sigh of relief. We were told 
later of a traveling showman who had been over all 
the main roads of the Island with a traction engine 
and who declared this the worst hill he knew of. 

Newport — quite different from the Eastern 
Welsh Newport — and Cardigan are quaint, old- 
world villages, though now decayed and shrunken. 
I will not write of them, though the history of each 
is lost in the mists of antiquity and the former pos- 
sesses an imposing though ruinous castle. The 
road between them is hilly, but the hills are well 
wooded and the prospects often magnificent and 
far-reaching. We found it much the same after 
leaving Cardigan, though the country is distinctly 
better and more pleasing than the extreme south. 
The farm houses appear more prosperous, and well- 

cared-for gardens surround them. Nowhere did we 

122 



A WEEK IN SOUTH WALES 
find the people kinder or more courteous. An in- 
stance occurred at Carmarthen, where we stopped 
to consult our maps. The owner of a near-by 
jewelry shop came out and accosted us. Did we 
want information about the roads? He had lived 
in Carmarthen many years and was familiar with 
all the roads about the town. To Llandovery? 
We had come too far; the road north of the river 
is the best and one of the prettiest in Wales. It 
would be worth our while to go back a mile and take 
this road. 

Thanking him, we retraced our way through 
the long main street of the town and were soon 
away over one of the most perfect and beautiful of 
Welsh highways. It runs in straight broad 
stretches between rows of fine trees, past com- 
fortable-looking farm houses, and through cozy little 
hamlets nestling amid trees and shrubbery, and 
seems constantly to increase in charm until it takes 
one into Llandovery, twenty-five miles from Car- 
marthen and the center of one of the most pictur- 
esque sections of Wales. 

Lying among wooded hills in a valley where 
two clear little rivers join their waters, Llandovery — 
the church among the waters — is a village of sur- 
passing loveliness. The touch of antiquity so 
neccessary to complete the charm is in the merest 

fragment of its castle, a mouldering bit of wall on 

123 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

a mound overlooking the rivers — dismantled **by 
Cromwell's orders/' Delightful as the town is, its 
surroundings are even more romantic. The highest 
peaks of South Wales, the Beacon and the Black 
Mountains, overlook it and in the recesses of these 
rugged hills are many resorts for the fisherman and 
summer excursionist. From the summits are vast 
panoramas of wooded hills and verdant valleys. 
The view is so far-reaching that on a clear day one 
may see the ocean to the south; or, far distant in 
the opposite direction, the snow-crowned mountains 
of Northern Wales. 

The road from Llandovery to Brecon is as 
fine as that to Carmarthen, though it is more sinuous 
and hilly. But it is perfectly surfaced and climbs 
the hills in such long sweeping curves and easy 
uniform grades that the steepest scarcely checks the 
flight of our car as it hastens at a thirty-five mile 
gait to Brecon. It is growing late — we might well 
wish for more time to admire the views from the 
hillside road. The valleys are shrouded in the 
purple haze of twilight and the sky is rich with sun- 
set coloring. It has been a strenuous day for us — 
one of our longest runs over much bad road. We 
note with satisfaction the promise of a first-class 
hotel at Brecon, though we find it crowded almost 
to our exclusion. But we are so weary that we 
vigorously protest and a little shifting — ^with some 

124 



A WEEK IN SOUTH WALES 

complaint from the shifted parties — makes room for 
us. We are told in awe-stricken whispers that the 
congestion is partly due to the fact that Her Grace 
the Duchess of B — (wife of one of the richest peers 
in England) has arrived at the hotel with her 
retinue, traveling in two motor cars. She was 
pointed out to us in the morning as she walked 
along the promenade in very short skirts, accom- 
panied by her poodle. We heard of this duke often 
in our journeyings, one old caretaker in a place 
owned by the nobleman assuring us that his income 
was no less than a guinea a minute! The duke 
owns many blocks of buildings in some of the busiest 
sections of London. The land occupied by them 
came into possession of the family through the 
marriage of the great-grandfather of the present 
holder of the title with the daughter of a dairy 
farmer who owned much of the quarter where 
London real estate is now of fabulous value — thus 
showing that some of the English aristocracy rose 
to wealth by means quite as plebeian as some of 
those across the water. Nowadays the penniless 
duke would have crossed the Atlantic to recoup his 
fortune, instead of turning to a rich dairyman's 
daughter in his own country. 

But in indulging in this more or less interesting 
gossip, I am forgetting Brecon and the Castle Hotel, 
rightly named in this instance, for the hotel owns 

125 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

the old castle; it stands in the private grounds 
which lie between the hotel and the river and are 
beautified with flowers and shrubbery. Brecon 
boasts of great antiquity and it was here that Sir 
John Price made overtures to Henry VIII. which 
resulted in the union of England and Wales. The 
priory church is one of the largest and most important 
in Wales and is interesting in architecture as well 
as historical association. We saw the plain old house 
where the ever-charming Mrs. Siddons was born — 
a distinction of which Brecon is justly proud. And 
Brecon is not without its legend of Charles the 
Wanderer, who passed a day or two at the priory 
during one of his hurried marches in Wales, and 
the letter he wrote here is the first record we have 
of his despair of the success of the royal cause. 

My chapter is already too long — but what else 
might be expected of an effort to crowd mto a few 
pages the record of sights and impressions that 
might well fill a volume? 



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VIII 

SOME NOOKS AND CORNERS 

Early next day we were in Hereford, for it is 
but forty miles from Brecon by the Wye Valley 
road. It had been just one week since we had 
passed through the town preparatory to our tour 
of South Wales — a rather wearisome journey of 
well upon a thousand miles over some of the worst 
of Welsh roads. It was not strange, then, that we 
gladly seized the opportunity for a short rest in Here- 
ford. There is something fascinating about the fine 
old cathedral town. It appeals to one as a place 
of repose and quiet, though this may be apparent 
rather than real, for we found the Green Dragon 
filled to the point of turning away would-be guests. 
The town stands sedately in the midst of the broad, 
level meadows which surround it on every side, and 
through its very center meanders the Wye, the 
queenliest of British rivers, as though loath to leave 
the confines of such a pleasant place. It is a modern 
city, despite its ancient history, for its old-time land- 
marks have largely disappeared and its crowded 
lanes have been superseded by broad streets. Even 
the cathedral has a distressingly new appearance, 

127 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

due to the recent restoration, and a public park 
occupies the site of the vanished castle. But for 
all that, one likes Hereford. Its newness is not the 
cheap veneer so frequently evident in the resort 
towns; it is solid and genuine throughout and there 
are enough antique corners to redeem it from monot- 
ony. To sum up our impressions, Hereford is a 
place one would gladly visit again — and again. 

Jotted down on our map adjacent to the 
Tewkesbury road were blue crosses, indicating 
several seldom-visited nooks and corners we had 
learned of in our reading and which we determined 
to explore. No recollection of our wanderings 
comes back to us rosier with romance or more 
freighted with the spirit of rural England than that 
of our meanderings through the leafy byways of 
Worcestershire in search of Birtsmorton, Ripple, 
Stanton and Strensham. One will look long at the 
map before he finds them and a deal of inquiry was 
necessary before we reached Birtsmorton and its 
strange moated manor, Moreton Court. No better 
idea could be given of the somnolence and utter 
retirement of the little hamlet than the words of a 
local writer: 

"Birtsmorton is remarkable for the almost total 

absence of the usual signs of trade and industry; 

even agriculture is prosecuted within such limits as 

consist with leaving an ample portion of its surface 

128 



SOME NOOKS AND CORNERS 
in the good feudal condition of extended sheep 
walks and open downs. Such Birtsmorton has ever 
been, ^uch it still is — but, thanks to projected rail- 
roads, such we trust it will not always be." 

The projected railroad has not yet arrived and 
the lover of quietude and of the truly rural will hope 
that it will still be long delayed. No quainter old 
place did we find in our long quest for the quaint 
than Moreton Court. Fancy a huge, rambling 
house, a mixture of brick and half-timber, with a 
great gateway over which the ancient port-cullis still 
shows its teeth, surrounded closely on all sides by 
the waters of a very broad moat and connected with 
the outer world by a drawbridge. Once inside the 
court, for you gain admission easily, you pause to 
look at the strange assortment of gables, huge 
chimneys and mullioned windows, all indicative of 
ancient state. Not less interesting is the interior; 
one finds a staircase of solid black oak with a queer, 
twisted newelpost. dark corridors leading to massive 
oaken doors, chambers with ceilings intersected by 
heavy beams, and a state apartment of surpassing 
beauty. This is a spacious room, paneled to the 
ceiling with finely wrought dark oak, its mullioned 
oriel windows overhanging the moat, which on this 
side widens to a lake. A marvelous chimney-piece 
with the arms of the ancient owners attracts atten- 

129 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

tion and the scutcheons of a dozen forgotten noble- 
men are ranged as a frieze around the walls. 

We will not seek to learn the history of the old 
house, but some of its legends have a strange fasci- 
nation. It is surely appropriate that Moreton Court 
should have its ghost — the "lily maid** who on 
winter nights kneels over the grave of her murdered 
lover in the adjoining churchyard. Her stern father 
had driven her from his home because of her con- 
stancy to her yeoman lover, whom he caused to be 
hung on the false charge of stealing a cow. The 
next morning the cruel sire found his daughter dead 
at his door, covered with the winter snow. But 
there is another grim old legend far better authenti- 
cated, which had its origin in a sad incident occur- 
ring at Moreton Court two or three centuries ago, 
and a sermon is still annually preached in the church 
against dueling. A pair of lovers were plighting their 
troth in the manor gardens when an unsuccessful 
rival of the happy youth chanced upon them and 
a quarrel ensued which led to a duel fatal to both 
of the combatants. The heart-broken maiden 
ended her days in sorrow at Moreton Court and 
left by will a fund to provide for this annual ser- 
mon. Another weird story they tell of the great 
Wolsey, in his youth chaplain to the lords of More- 
ton Court. A recalcitrant priest from Little Mal- 
vern Priory was condemned to crawl on all fours 

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SOME NOOKS AND CORNERS 

from his cell to the summit of Ragged-Stone Hill 
and in his rage cursed all upon whom the shadow 
of the hill should afterwards fall. Wolsey was one 
day reading in the manor grounds when to his 
horror he found that the fatal shadow of the hill- 
crest enveloped him. 

But today, for all its history and legend. More- 
ton Court has degenerated into an ill-kept tenement 
farmhouse and the banquet hall with its richly 
moulded plaster roof is used as a storehouse for 
cheese. The stagnant waters of the moat and the 
uncleanly dairy yard directly in front of the house 
accord ill with its old-time state and with our modern 
notions of sanitation. The church near at hand is 
older and quite as unique as the manor; little restor- 
ation has interfered with its antique charm. Its 
bench ends still show the Tudor Rose and are un- 
doubtedly those originally placed in the church. A 
"sanctuary ring" in the door and an odd circular 
alms-chest are very unusual and the altar tombs and 
screens are worthy of notice. In the church are 
buried the ancient lords of Moreton Court, who 
sleep their long sleep while church and manor de- 
generate into plebeian hands and gradually fall into 
ruin. 

We found it practically impossible at the close 
of the day to trace on the map the maze of byways 
we threaded before reaching Worcester, and now 

131 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

our wanderings come back only as a general impres- 
sion. We crossed the Severn at Tewkesbury but 
did not enter the town. A departure from the 
Worcester road into a narrow lane led us in a mile or 
two into Ripple, one of the quaintest and coziest of 
hamlets. Only a few thatched cottages clustered 
about the stone market cross of immemorial days — 
cottages overshadowed by no less immemorial elms, 
mantled with ivy and dashed with the color of rose 
vines. Near the cross, relics of days when there 
were rogues in Ripple — surely there are none now 
— are the oaken stocks and weather-beaten whipping- 
post. What a quiet, dreamy, secluded place it 
seems. It is hard indeed to imagine that within a 
circle of fifty miles is a country teeming with cities. 
If the village has any history we did not learn it — 
no great man is connected with Ripple as Tennyson 
with Somersby, though Ripple is not unlike Som- 
ersby. Ripple is worth a day's journey just for itself. 
Only one lane leads to the village, but we left it 
over a wide common, passing many gates to regain 
the main road. 

We left this again in a few miles for Strensham, 
a village not unlike Ripple, though larger. Its 
church, our "object of interest,*' is situated in the 
fields a mile from the town. No open road leads 
to it, only a rough stone-strewn path through the 
fields. They told us, though, that we might take 

132 




TOWN CROSS, STOCKS AND WHIPPING POST, RIPI'LK. 



SOME NOOKS AND CORNERS 
the car to the church, and we passed through sev- 
eral gates before we paused in the green meadow 
in front of the old structure. There was no one in 
charge; the doors were locked and it looked as if 
our pains in coming were all for nothing. A man 
who was trimming the hedge pointed out the rec- 
tory and a little effort brought forth the rector him- 
self, who seemed much pleased that pilgrims should 
be interested enough to come to his church. 

Surely Strensham Church is one of the quaint- 
est of the smaller English churches. The restorer's 
hand has not as yet marred its oddity — though 
sorely needed, the rector said, to arrest too evident 
decay. The floor is of uneven flagstones, inter- 
spersed here and there with remnants of the original 
tiling. The high-backed oaken pews have been 
in place for centuries, but, alas, have been covered 
by a coat of yellow "grained** paint. 

**I had a man come from London to give me 
the cost of removing the paint," said the rector, 
**but he said it would be sixty pounds — quite out 
of the question when money is so much needed to 
prevent actual decay.** 

The rood loft, bearing a dozen painted panels 

of saints — as old, perhaps, as the church, yet with 

colors rich and strong, is very remarkable. Each 

face has a characteristic expression, in most cases 

rather quaintly distorted, and each saint has some dis- 

133 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

tinguishing mark, as St. Anthony with his pig. There 
are several unusually fine brasses, but the best of these 
had been torn from its original grave before the al- 
tar a hundred years ago by an ambitious squire who 
desired to occupy this place of honor himself. 

"But like the man in the scriptures who sought 
the head of the table only to be humiliated, the 
usurper is likely to be removed," said the rector, 
"and the fourteenth century brass replaced over the 
grave." 

The little church seems lonely and poverty-strick- 
en, but the rectory near at hand is a large, com- 
fortable house surrounded by well-kept gardens. 
Strensham village has a decided advantage over its 
lowly neighbor. Ripple, for it is known to fame as 
the birthplace of Samuel Butler, the author of 
"Hudibras." 

A charming road leads through Upton-on- 
Severn to Malvern Wells and Great Malvern, but 
we had no leisure to contemplate its beauties; a car 
was bent on passing us — to which we were much 
averse, for the road was very dusty. We had only 
a glimpse of the Malverns, with their endless array 
of hotels, lodging-houses and other resort-town char- 
acteristics. The two towns are practically continu- 
ous and lie beneath the Malvern Hills, whose slopes, 
diversified with stone-walled fields, groves and farm 
villages, stretch away to the blue haze that nearly 

134 



SOME NOOKS AND CORNERS 

always envelops the summits. Yet Malvern is not 
without a touch of antiquity — no doubt the Romans 
had a station here and the splendid priory church 
rivals some of the cathedrals in size and dignity. 
Only scanty ruins remain of the domestic portions 
of the abbey, which, with the great beautifully 
carved Gothic gateway, constitute all that is left 
of the old order besides the church. A delightful 
feature of the towns is the Common — when we saw 
it, fine stretches of greensward with many noble 
trees. The Common was at one time a royal do- 
main, and Charles I. in his stresses for money un- 
dertook to sell the land to raise funds, but such 
rioting ensued in Malvern that a compromise was 
effected by surrendering two-thirds of the Chase, 
as the Common was then called, to the people. 
Though the forests have been greatly thinned by 
the ax, there still remains enough of sylvan beauty 
to give to Malvern Common an indescribable 
charm, and so intersected is it with sinuous roads 
that it was with difficulty we started aright for 
Worcester. 

On our way to the cathedral city we passed the 
battlefield where the momentous encounter took 
place between the forces of Cromwell and the Roy- 
alists under Prince Charles — or, as his followers 
claimed. King Charles II. through his Scotch coro- 
nation — which resulted in such disaster to the royal 

135 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

arms. Cromwell called it his "crowning mercy," 
and indeed it ended all organized efforts against 
the Commonwealth while the Protector lived. 
Charles fled to Boscobel, as already related, and 
after many adventures reached France to remain 
until peacefully recalled after Oliver's death. 

Worcester is one of the fine old towns that 
tempt one to linger, no matter how often he may 
come. Modern improvements have swept away 
many of the relics of extreme antiquity; yet the 
Romans were certainly here, and before them the 
early Britons had a fortified town on the site. The 
streets are now lined with attractive shops and here 
is extensive manufacturing — few indeed are the 
wayfarers who escape paying tribute to "Royal 
Worcester" before they leave. Not a little of the 
charm of the town is due to the Severn, lying broad, 
bright and still in its very heart. We pause for 
tea — again the mild dissipation of the Englishman 
attracts us — at the Star Hotel, and as we depart 
from the city look lingeringly at the majestic yet 
graceful outlines of the cathedral towers against the 
evening sky. 

Coventry is but forty miles away. The King's 

Head comes to our minds, though ever so faintly, 

as something like home, and we may reach it by 

the grace of the long twilight. And what a flight 

It is — through the most delightful section of rural 

136 



SOME NOOKS AND CORNERS 

England, tinged with the golden glows and purple 
shades of a perfect summer evening. We sweep 
over the broad road to Droitwich, and as soon as 
we can solve the mystery of its tortuous streets, we 
enter the excellent though rather narrow and wind- 
ing highway that leads through Alcester to Shakes- 
peare's Stratford. 

It had evidently been a gala day in the old 
town, for the streets were thronged with people, 
mostly from the surrounding country, though no 
doubt there was a goodly number of our fellow- 
countrymen in the crowd, since it was now the height 
of the Stratford season. Under the circumstances, 
the **eight-mile'* limit notice posted on the roads en- 
tering the town was quite superfluous; we could 
scarcely have violated it — so it seemed, at least — 
had it been only a mile an hour. Once away on 
the surpassing road to Coventry, the fifteen miles 
occupied scarce half an hour, despite the checks at 
Warwick and Kenilworth. Coventry was thronged 
with the happy "Week-End** holiday crowd, 
through which we slowly made our way to the 
King*s Head, where we were now well known and 
received as warm a welcome as one may find at an 
inn. 

Sunday, by odds the best day for getting about 
London or the larger cities, is not so satisfactory for 
touring in the rural sections. The roads are 

137 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

thronged with pedestrians, including many women 
and children. Not a few of the women pushed per- 
ambulators and often showed a strange perversity 
in crossing to the farther side of the road in front 
of the car. Besides, a number of the places one 
may desire to visit are closed on Sundays, though 
the tendency is constantly towards more liberality 
in this particular. Yet there was nothing agreeable 
in lounging about a hotel, and Sunday — afternoons, 
at least — usually found us on the road. It was 
very quiet in Nuneaton, the rather ugly town which 
George Eliot made famous as "Milby." The farm- 
house where the authoress was bom and the old 
manor, her home for many years, were not accessi- 
ble. The throngs of Sunday wayfarers made pro- 
gress slow, but we reached Tamworth for late lun- 
cheon at the excellent Castle Hotel and learned that 
the castle — the tower of Scott's "Marmion," would 
be open during the afternoon. 

Tamworth Castle is now the property of the 
town corporation and the grounds have been con- 
verted into a public park, which, judging from the 
crowds that filled it on the fine afternoon, must be 
well appreciated. The castle is situated on a high, 
apparently artificial mound. It has been put in tol- 
erable repair and is used as a museum. So well 
preserved is it that one may gain a good idea of the 
domestic life of a feudal nobleman of the fourteenth 

138 



SOME NOOKS AND CORNERS 

century — a life comfortless and rude, judged by our 
present standards. There is much paneling and 
elaborate wood-carving on the walls and mantels of 
many of the rooms, and one may be quite lost in 
the devious passageways that lead to odd nooks 
and quaint, irregular apartments. The view from 
the keep tower, with its massive over-hanging bat- 
tlements, was indeed a lovely one. The day was 
perfectly clear, permitting a far-reaching outlook 
over the valley of the Tame, a fertile country of 
meadow lands and yellowing harvest fields, while 
westward in the distance the spires of Lichfield 
pierced the silvery sky. 

There is, perchance, something a little incon- 
gruous in a restored and well-cared-for old-time cas- 
tle such as Tamworth. It can never appeal to the 
imagination as does the shattered, neglected ruin 
crumbling away beneath its mantle of ivy and flaunt- 
ing its banners of purple and yellow wall-flowers. 
But after all, the Tamworth idea is the right one 
and insures the preservation of many historic build- 
ings which otherwise might gradually fall into com- 
plete decay. And yet one almost shudders to think 
of Ludlow or Raglan under such conditions. 

We hastened over the broad road to Lichfield, 
and passing through its irregular streets, with which 
we are now fairly familiar, followed the river to 
Colwich, where we paused to admire the splendid 

139 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 
Decorated church which overshadows the quiet 
village. But few prettier and more truly rural by- 
roads did we find anywhere than the one running 
northward from Colwich to Uttoxeter. On either 
side were flower-spangled hedge-rows, or in places 
long ranks of over-arching trees. Though the road 
was excellent, the trim neatness so characteristic of 
England was quite wanting. The tangle of wild 
flowers, vines cuid shrubbery was faintly suggestive 
of country roadsides in some of our Western states. 
Midway we came into full view of a lonely 
ruined castle standing on the crest of a gently 
rising hill, and surrounded by a lawnlike meadow 
running down to the road. The ragged towers and 
crumbling walls stood gray and forbidding against 
a background of giant trees, and these v/ere sharply 
outlined against the bluest of English skies. 
We learn later that it is Chartley Castle, which 
stands in a tract of ancient forest and heath land, 
upon which roams a herd of wild white cattle similar 
to those of Chillingham. Over Chartley broods the 
somber memory of its one-time owner, the Earl of 
Ferrars, who in a fit of anger murdered a steward 
and was hanged two centuries ago for the crime at 
Tyburn. It was his whim to be dressed in his wed- 
ding garments and hanged with a silken cord. He 
was stoic to the last and would say no more than 
he expressed in the misanthropic lines: 

140 



SOME NOOKS AND CORNERS 

"In doubt I lived, in doubt I die. 
Yet stand prepared the vast abyss to try. 
And undismayed expect eternity." 
A grim old tale that fits well with the lonely for- 
tress, standing in unguarded ruin in the mysterious 
forest about it. 

But the day was waning and we hastened on 
to Uttoxeter, a town to which Nathaniel Haw- 
thorne made a pilgrimage nearly half a century ago, 
attracted by the fact that it is the birthplace of Dr. 
Samuel Johnson. He regretted that there was no 
memorial of the great author in his native town, but 
this has since been supplied. An ugly fountain has 
been erected on the traditional spot where John- 
son did penance, as he described in a letter to Miss 
Seward on his return from Uttoxeter : 

"Fifty years ago, madam, on the day, I com- 
mitted a breach of filial piety which has ever since 
lain heavy on my mind, and has not till this day been 

expiated. My father had long been in the 

habit of attending Uttoxeter market and opening a 
stall of his books during that day. Confined to his 
bed by indisposition, he requested me, this time 
fifty years, to visit the market in his place. But, 
madam, my pride prevented me from doing my duty 
and I gave my father a refusal. To do away the 
sin of disobedience, this day I went in a post-chaise 
to Uttoxeter, and going into the market at the time 

141 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

of high business, uncovered my head and stood with 
it bare an hour before the stall which my father 
formerly used, exposed to the sneers of the standers- 
by and the inclemency of the weather." 

The open road to Derby is broad, straight, 
smooth and level — what a combination of excel- 
lences for the motorist! — and the car skims joyously 
along. There are many fine estates on either hand 
with wide forest-dotted parks and imposing gate- 
ways. Derby is a large, rather unattractive town 
and we do not care to linger. Mansfield appeals 
more strongly to us, for Mansfield is the center of 
the Byron country. The road is not a pleasing one, 
passing through towns crowded with workingmen*s 
cottages and climbing steep, stony hills. At dusk 
we come into Mansfield and find it a larger town 
than we had fancied — a rather modern city built 
around an ancient center, in the very heart of which 
stands the old many-gabled Swan Inn. 



142 



IX 

THE BYRON COUNTRY 

The exterior of the Swan Inn, its weather- 
beaten gables crowded between rather shabby-look- 
ing buildings on either side, is not wholly prepos- 
sessing. We hesitate to enter the courtyard, though 
it is quite late, until a policeman assures us there 
is nothing better in the town — or in the country 
about, for that matter. Had we needed further 
assurance, we might have glanced at our trusty 
Baedeker to find the Swan honored v/ith special 
mention as "an excellent, long-established house 
with winding oak stairs three hundred years old." 
Once inside our misgivings vanish instantly amidst 
the air of cleanliness, solid comfort and pleasant an- 
tiquity that prevails. We have a large room, al- 
most oppressive in its wealth of mahogany, and, 
dimly lighted by candles in ancient candlesticks, it 
seems pervaded with an air of ghostly mystery. 
There are tall-posted, canopied beds of marvelous 
state, mysterious oaken chests heavily carved, an- 
tique chairs, quaint old settees, and many curious 
things wrought in brass and copper. 

Altogether, few other of the country inns had 
143 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

quite the charm of the Swan, and very agreeable 
did we find the ladies who managed it. We told 
them of our previous futile attempts to see New- 
stead Abbey and they were certain that the coveted 
privilege would be secured for us on the following 
day — it had never been refused to guests of the 
Swan at the request of the manageress. She would 
write at once and would doubtless have an answer 
in the morning. It need hardly be said that we were 
glad to stay another day at the Swan and in the 
meanwhile visit some of the curious and delightful 
spots in which Derbyshire abounds. No section of 
England is more famed than the "Peak District," 
with Haddon Hall, Chatsworth, Bakewell Church, 
Buxton and Dovedale; and though almost unknown 
to tourists, the great moorlands which stretch away 
to the north we found none the less interesting. 

Chesterfield Church is famous for its distorted 
spire, strangely twisted and leaning several degrees 
from the vertical. Some say it was due to a whim 
of the designer, but local legend prefers to ascribe 
it to the malice of His Satanic Majesty, who chose 
such queer ways of venting his spite on the churches 
of olden time. If he indeed twisted Chesterfield's 
spire, it was at least a far more obvious evidence 
of his ill will toward churches than the scratch of 
his claw still shown on the bell of St. Mary's at 
Shrewsbury. But the troublesome antiquarians, 

144 



THE BYRON COUNTRY 

who have such a way of discrediting the pains- 
taking and very satisfactory work of the legend- 
makers, would have us believe that the oaken tim- 
bers of the spire warped while seasoning under 
their coverings of lead. Be that as it may, Chester- 
field Church is worthy a few minutes' pause on ac- 
count of its remarkable tombs and unusual screen mys- 
teriously carved with emblems of the crucifixion. 
Less imposing is Trinity Church, though the white 
marble tablet on its walls with the simple inscrip- 
tion, "George Stephenson, died August 12, 1848. 
aged 68 years," will have a fascination for the way- 
farer from the remotest part of the earth, wherever 
the steam railroad has penetrated. The great in- 
ventor spent his declining years in retirement on a 
farm about a mile from Chesterfield, and his house 
still stands, partly hidden from the road by ancient 
trees. 

We had no desire to visit Chatsworth House 
a second time, though we followed the much fre- 
quented road through the park. No section of 
rural England, possibly excepting the Stratford- 
upon-Avon country is more favored by tourists; mo- 
tors, carriages and chars-a-bancs were everywhere 
m evidence and stirred up clouds of limestone dust, 
which whitened the trees and hedges and filled the 
sky with a silvery haze. The number of English 
visitors is greater than at Stratford, and the more 

145 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

intelligent Englishman who has not visited Chats- 
worth is rather the exception. A thousand visitors 
a day is not uncommon; yet Chatsworth House is 
thrown open free to all every week day — surely an 
example of princely generosity on the part of the 
Duke of Devonshire. 

Few who visit Chatsworth will omit Haddon 
Hall, and while a single visit to the modern palace 
may suffice, a hundred to Haddon, it seemed to us, 
would leave one still unsatisfied. Who could ever 
weary of the indescribable beauty of the ancient 
house or cease to delight in its atmosphere of ro- 
mantic story? Nowhere in England is there an- 
other place that speaks so eloquently of the past or 
which brings so near to our prosaic present day the 
life, manners and environment of the English no- 
bleman of three or four centuries ago. No sight in 
England is more enchanting than the straggling walls 
and widely scattered towers of Haddon, standing 
in gray outline against the green of its sheltering hill 
— the point of view chosen by the painter of our 
picture. Yet, with all its battlements and watch- 
towers, Haddon was never a fortified castle — a cir- 
cumstance to which we owe its perfect preservation. 
The wars of the Roses and the Commonwealth left 
it scathless; it was an actual residence until 1730, 
since which time every care has been exercised to 
maintain it in repair. We v^U not rehearse the well- 

146 




S 

c 



THE BYRON COUNTRY 

known legends of the place, nor will we give ear 
for an instant to the insinuation that the romance of 
the fair Dorothy was fabricated less than a hundred 
years ago. What tinge of romance will be left to 
this prosaic world if these busybody iconoclasts are 
given heed? They cannot deny that Dorothy mar- 
ried John Manners, Duke of Rutland, anyway, for 
it was through this union that Haddon Hall passed 
to its present owners. 

After a long, loving look at her ancestral 
home, we turn away and follow the dusty road to 
Bakewell, where we stand before her tomb in the 
fine old church. Here in effigy she kneels facing 
her husband and below are the indescribably quaint 
figures of her four children. The caretaker, who is 
loudly lecturing a group of trippers, catches a 
glimpse of us as we enter and his practical eye differ- 
entiates instantly the American tourist. He hastens 
to us and begs us to wait a little — the party is large 
— he will soon give us his personal attention. The 
trippers are hurried along and dismissed with scant 
ceremony and we are shown about in detail that 
encroaches upon our time. Still, there are manv 
things of genuine interest and antiquity in Bakewell 
Church and the dissertations of our guide concerning 
them is worth the half crown we bestow upon him. 

Outside, we pause to contemplate the grand 

old structure. Its massive walls terminate in cas- 

147 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

tellated battlements and its splendid spire, a minia- 
ture of Salisbury, in slender yet graceful proportions, 
rises to a height of two hundred feet. All around 
is the spacious churchyard, thickly set with monu- 
mental stones, and upon one of these we noted the 
quaintest of the many quaint old English epitaphs 
we read. Happy indeed the parish clerk immor- 
talized in the following couplets: 

"The vocal Powers let us mark 
Of Philip our late Parish Clerk 
In Church none ever heard a Layman 

With clearer Voice say Amen! 
Who now with Hallelujas Sound 

Like Him can make the Roofs rebound. 
The Choir lament his Choral tones 

The Town — so soon Here lie his bones 
Sleep undisturbed within thy peaceful shrine, 
Till Angels wake thee with such notes as 
thine." 
From Bake well we followed one of the many 
Wyes to Buxton — a road scarcely equalled for 
beauty in the Peak District. What a contrast its 
wayside trees and flowers and pleasant farm cot- 
tages presented to the stony moorland road we pur- 
sued northward from Buxton! We lingered at the 
latter place only enough to note the salient features 
of the popular watering-place of the Peak. It is 
situated in a verdant valley, but the moorland hills, 

148 



THE BYRON COUNTRY 

bleak and barren, nearly surround it. Only three miles 
distant is Dovedale, famed as the loveliest and most 
picturesque of the many English "Dales." 

I have no words cheerless enough to tell our 
impressions of the great Midland Moor, through 
whose very heart our way led to the northward. 
A stony road through a gray, stony country with 
a stone hovel here and there, tells something of the 
story. We pass bleak little towns, climb many 
steep, winding hills, speed swiftly along the uplands, 
leaving a long trail of white dust-clouds in our wake 
— until we are surprised by Glossop, a good-sized 
city in the midst of the moor. It has large paper- 
mills, substantially built of stone, an industry made 
possible by the pure waters of the moor. The 
streets are paved with rough cobble-stones and the 
town has altogether a cheerless, unattractive look, 
but interesting as quite a new phase of England. 
In all our journeyings throughout the Kingdom we 
found no section more utterly bleak and dreary than 
that through which we passed from Buxton to Glos- 
sop. We could but imagine what aspect a coun- 
try that so impressed us on a fine day in June time 
must present in the dull, gray English winter. 
How the unimpeded winds must sweep the brown 
moorlands! How their icy blasts must search out 
every crevice in the lone cottages and penetrate the 
cheerless-looking hovels in the villages! A small 

149 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

native of whom we asked his recollection of winter 
shook his head sadly and said, "Awfully cold"; 
and a local proverb referring to the section has it 
that "Kinderscout is the cowdest place aout.'* 

The Sheffield road follows the hills, which 
towered high above us at times or again dropped 
almost sheer away below to a black, tumbling 
stream. In one place, beneath an almost mountain- 
ous hill, we had an adventure which startled us 
more than any other occurrence of our tour. From 
the summit of a hill hundreds of feet above us, some 
miscreant loosened a huge boulder, which plunged 
down the declivity seemingly straight at us, but by 
good fortune missed our car by a few yards. The 
perpetrator of the atrocity immediately disappeared 
and there was no chance of tracing him. Happily, 
we had no similar outrage to record of all our 
twelve thousand miles in Britain, and we pass the 
act as that of a criminal or lunatic. This road was 
built about the beginning of the nineteenth century 
and a competent authority expresses doubt if there is 
a finer, better-engineered road in England than that 
between Glossop and Ashopton, a village about 
half way to Sheffield, and adds, "or one where 
houses are so rare — or the sight of an inn rouses 
such pleasureable anticipation, "though one of these, 
"The Snake," must have other attractions than its 
name. It is indeed a fine road, though by no means 

150 



THE BYRON COUNTRY 

unmatched by many others — the Manchester road 
to the northwest fully equals it, and following as 
it does the series of fine reservoirs lying in the val- 
leys, is superior in scenery. 

We took a short cut through Sheffield, the 
city of knives, razors and silver plate, caught a 
second glimpse of Chesterfield's reeling spire, and 
swept over the hills into Mansfield just as the long 
twilight was fading into night. 

The next morning our hostess of The Swan 
placed in our hands the much-sought-for pass to 
Newstead Abbey, and to while the time until the 
hour set for admittance, we went by the way of 
Hucknall, to visit Byron's grave in the church 
whose square-topped tower dominates the town. 
Recent restoration gives an air of newniess, for Huck- 
nall Church, when Byron's remains were laid before 
its altar, was little better than a ruin. The old man 
working over the graves in the churchyard knew 
full well our mission and leaving his task accosted 
us in unmistakable Irish brogue. He led us directly 
to the poet's tomb, and it was with deep feeling 
not unmixed with awe that we advanced toward 
the high altar of Hucknall Church and stood silent 
and uncovered before the grave of Byron. On the 
wall over the tomb were graven two of those pas- 
sages whose lofty sentiments glitter like gems — though 

betimes in inharmonious setting — throughout the 

151 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

poet's writings, which breathe the high hopes he 
felt in his better moments. Well may the tablet 
over his last resting-place bear the inspired lines: 

**If that high world, which lies beyond 

Our own, surviving Love endears; 
If there the cherish'd heart be fond. 

The eye the same, except in tears — 
How welcome those untrodden spheres! 

How sweet this very hour to die! 
To soar from earth and find all fears 

Lost in thy light — Eternity!" 

"It must be so; 'tis not for self 

That we so tremble on the brink; 
And, striving to o'erleap the gulf. 

Yet cling to Being's severing link. 
Oh ! in that future let us think 

To hold each heart the heart that shares ; 
With them the immortal waters drink. 

And soul in soul grow deathless theirs!" 

The second quotation is from "Childe Harold," 
more positive in its tone, though less scintillating 
in its verbiage. In the wall near by, the gift of a 
Scotch admirer, is a marble profile medallion of the 
poet's face, with Shelley's characterization, "The 
Pilgrim of Eternity." In the adjoining vestry the 
walls are covered with the graven words of many 
of the greatest men of the century — tributes to the 

152 



THE BYRON COUNTRY 

genius of Byron. Verily the church at Hucknall has 
become as a mausoleum to one denied burial in 
the nation's Valhalla, and who was, in truth, almost 
grudged sepulture in his native soil by a large num- 
ber of the Englishmen of his day. And there came 
to us a faint conception of the intense bitterness of 
the times — when the body of England's greatest 
genius, dead in a forlorn but glorious cause, was 
brought to his native land to be greeted with a 
storm of hatred and a fierce protest against interment 
in Westminster Abbey. With little ceremony he 
was laid away in the church of Hucknall and pil- 
grims now come daily to that otherwise uninterest- 
ing and rather ugly town to do honor to the memory 
of Byron — certainly one of the brightest and most 
fascinating, if not the greatest, of English poets. 

For me there Vv^as none other of the historic 
places which we visited more deeply tinged by its 
romantic associations or possessing a greater fascina- 
tion than Newstead Abbey. Perhaps this feeling 
was intensified by our previous unsuccessful attempts 
to gain admission and by the recollection of the 
passion of my boyhood days for the verse of Byron 
— though indeed I have hardly read him latterly. 
But we were to visit Newstead at last. If we 
found a little difficulty — possibly the result of our 
Ignorance — in getting permission, we could not com- 
plain of the opportunities afforded us as visitors. 

153 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

From the Mansfield road we entered the gate- 
way and drove through the stretches of forest and 
meadow in the great park, halting the car at the 
very doorway of the ancient place. We paused to 
view the fine facade, with its square battlemented 
tower at one end and the ruins of the abbey church 
at the other. There is little left of this latter save 
the east wall, once pierced by three great windows, 
two of which have at some time been filled in. We 
were conducted by the rather aristocratic house- 
keeper to every part of the house save the private 
apartments of the family, and there was no effort 
to hurry us along — so often the fate of the tourist 
in such cases. 

One who is accustomed to think of Newstead 
Abbey as it lives, lonely and half ruinous, in the 
verse of Byron, who had such an intense affection 
for the home of his ancestors; or even one who 
reads Washington Irving's interesting account of 
his visit to the place when owned by Col. Wildman 
a few years later, is hardly prepared for the modern 
palace into which the abbey has been transformed. 
The paneled halls, with their rich furnishings and 
rare curios from all parts of the world, and the trim, 
beautifully kept gardens that greet one everywhere 
from the windows, have little in common with the 
Newstead of which Byron wrote in "Hours of 
Idleness:" 

154 




^^^ 



THE BYRON COUNTRY 

"Through thy battlements, Newstead, the hol- 
low winds whistle. 
Thou, the hall of my fathers, art gone to 
decay; 
In thy once smiling garden, the hemlock and 
thistle 
Have choked up the rose which once 
bloomed in the way." 
Still, much is unaltered and there are many relics to 
bring memories of the one-time noble, though un- 
fortunate, owner, whose recklessness quite as much 
as his necessities compelled the sale of his cincestral 
estate. 

Of greatest interest are the apartments which 
Byron himself occupied, a suite of three m.edium- 
sized rooms, which have been religiously kept 
through all the years just as the poet left them. 
The simple blue and white toilet set was his own, 
the bed the one he slept in, and many other articles 
and furnishings vividly recall the noble occupant 
who never returned after the sale of the abbey. 
Probably no one has occupied the rooms since 
Washington Irving slept there during the visit we 
have referred to and was roused in the middle of 
the night by a ghostly footfall in the hall — ^bul 
found only Boatswain II. outside the door. 

In the hall the marks of the pistol shots of the 
young lord and his wild companions have not been 

155 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

e^aced from the walls and in the gallery there is 
a collection of many mementos of the poet. Per- 
haps the most interesting is a section of the tree upon 
which he carved his name and that of his sister, 
Augusta — cut down because it was decaying. 
The gallery is largely filled with portraits of the 
present family, but our interest centers in the famous 
portrait by Phillips, in which the refined features 
and dignified though slightly melancholy air has in- 
vested the poet's face with a spirituality which it 
probably did not possess in so great a degree. 

From the house we were ushered into the 
gardens and were shown every nook and corner of 
these by the gardener in charge. They were elabo- 
rate indeed; rich with the color and perfume of the 
flowers which bloom so profusely in England; and 
there were many rare plants and shrubs. We were 
interested in Boatswain's grave, with its elaborate 
monument and inscription in which pathos verges 
on the ridiculous, yet highly consistent with the mis- 
anthropic moods so often affected by Byron. In 
contrast with the trim neatness of the flower beds 
and shrubbery is the fragment of the abbey church, 
through which the wind whistles as it did in the 
poet's day, and which has weathered the sun and 
rain of more than three hundred years since the 
heavy hand of the eighth Henry smote it into ruins. 
And it carries us back four hundred years farther 

156 



THE BYRON COUNTRY 

to another Henry, who built the abbey to expiate 
his crime of instigating the murder of Thomas 
a'Becket. 

The history of Newstead told in brief by 
Irving need not occupy space in this hasty chronicle. 
It was with reluctance that we departed after our 
two hours* sojourn. It often comes back in memory 
with all the color and glory of a perfect June day — 
the majestic hall, the abbey ruin, the gardens with 
their riot of coloring, the shining lake, the woodland 
and the meadows — an enchanted world which we 
left behind us as we hastened away over the road 
to Mansfield, where we had late luncheon at th^ 
Swan. 

One will not leave the vicinity of Mansfield 
without a visit to Hardwick Hall and Bolsover 
Castle, famous for their connection with Elizabeth 
Spencer, "Bess of Hardwick." Architecturally, 
both are disappointing; Hardwick, bald, harsh 
and square, like a modern concrete factory, and 
Bolsover, an incongruous pile cut up into small, ill- 
arranged apartments, by far the finest part of it in 
complete ruin. Hardwick is still a residence of the 
Duke of Devonshire and had just passed on the 
death of Spencer Cavendish to his nephew, who 
was refurnishing the house preparatory to making 
it his home. A bare, unhomelike place it seemed, 

with its great staring windows, its uneven concrete 

157 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

floors, and its high ceilings of decorated plaster, 
broken and discolored in many places. Its chief 
historical interest centers in the fact that it was one 
of the many prison-houses of Mary Stuart; but her 
imprisonment here was far from rigorous — in fact, 
so considerate was the Earl of Shrewsbury of his 
royal ward that it roused the jealousy of his amiable 
spouse, the energetic Bess. Concerning this incident 
Miss Strickland — a rather biased historian, we must 
fear — takes the countess to task in vigorous style, de- 
claring that — 

"His proud and cruel wife, whose temper 
could not be restrained by any power on earth or 
in heaven, soon became jealous of the lovely and 
fascinating prisoner, and led her husband, a noble 
of exemplary gravity and a grandsire, a terrible Kfe!" 

However, as in nearly every case of the kind, 
there appears to have been another side to it, and in 
any event, there were many who took the part of 
the jealous wife, including, as might be expected. 
Queen Elizabeth herself. 

The countess, besides Hardwick Hall, built 
the former house at Chatsworth, which has since 
been torn down. Bolsover was completed by her 
son; it is now unoccupied but maintained in good 
repair. It is worth a visit rather for the fine view 
from its towers — for it occupies a most magnificent 
site on a high promontory overlooking the wide vale 

158 



THE BYRON COUNTRY 
of the river — than for any interest the castle itself 
possesses. 

The sun had sunk low when we came down 
from the castle walls and started for York, sixty 
miles away. At Worksop we were clear of the 
byways and the open road, invitingly smooth and 
level and almost free from traffic, stretched out 
before us. This chronicle is no record of miles per 
hour, and the motor enters into it only as a means 
to an end; yet there is no harm in saying that we 
had few swifter, evener flights through a more 
charming country than that which fleeted past us 
between Worksop and York. We soon caught 
sight of Doncaster's dominating church tower, a 
fit mate for many of the cathedrals, but in our haste 
out of the town we missed the North Road and 
were soon noting the milestones to Tadcaster, 
famous for little else than its ales. The North Road 
is a trifle better in surface and a little more direct, 
but we had traversed it before and did not regret 
the opportunity of seeing a different country. The 
minster towers soon loomed dim in the purple light 
and we felt a sense of almost homelike restfulness 
when we were established at the Station Hotel — 
to our notion one of the two or three most comfort- 
able in England. 



159 



X 

FROM YORKSHIRE COAST TO BARNARD CASTLE 

The Minster of St. John of Beverley is easily 
the finest single example of Perpendicular architec- 
ture in England; in beauty and majesty of design, 
in proportion and in general effect — from almost 
any viewpoint — there is no more pleasing church 
in the Kingdom. We come in sight of its graceful 
twin towers while yet afar from the town, after a 
thirty-mile run from York through some of the most 
prosperous farming country in the shire. As we 
come nearer, the mass of red tiles, from which rises 
the noble bulk of the minster, resolves itself into 
the houses of the old town, whose ancient heart has 
lost none of its charm in the little city which has 
more recently grown up around it. 

As we emerge from a narrow street bordered 
with mean little houses, the great church suddenly 
bursts on our view and we pause to admire its vast 
yet perfect proportions, its rich carvings, and the 
multitude of graceful pinnacles. We enter, but the 
caretaker receives us with little enthusiasm, though 
at our request he shows us about in a rather re- 
served manner. A card on the wall explains mat- 

160 



FROM YORKSHIRE COAST TO BARNARD OASTLE 

ters: "Positively no fees to attendants." Our ex- 
perience has been that such a notice means cash in 
advance if you are to have the attention you vv^ant 
and w^hich you really need if you are to see and 
appreciate such a church. We proceed, therefore, 
to get on a proper footing vv^ith our guide, and begin 
forthw^ith to learn the history, the architecture, the 
curiosities and the gossip of Beverley Minster. And 
the last is not the least interesting, for here, as at 
Wymondham, was a rector who with the modest 
salary of four hundred pounds a year had spent many 
thousands of his own money in restoration and re- 
pair of the minster. He had restored the intricate 
screen and replaced some of the images which had 
been broken up, yet so cleverly was the toning and 
coloring done that the newer work could not be 
distinguished from the old. 

The St. John from whom the minster took its 
name was Archbishop of York and founded a 
church on the present site in the sixth century. He 
died in 731 and, tradition says, is buried in the 
minster. But Beverley's most distinguishing historic 
fact is that it was one of the three "sanctuaries of 
refuge" in England. Here, by the strange edict 
of the early church, any criminal who could evade 
his pursuers might take refuge in the precincts of 
Beverley Minster and for thirty days be entitled to 
the protection and hospitality of the monks, after 

161 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

which he was given a passport to sail from the 
nearest port to some foreign land. We saw the 
rude stone chair of "refuge" to which no doubt 
many a gasping scoundrel clung, safe, for the time, 
from justice by virtue of his ability to outrun his 
pursuers. One incident is recorded of a "Tailour 
of York'* who had cruelly murdered his wife but 
who escaped punishment by taking refuge in Bever- 
ley. The only penalty inflicted was to brand the 
criminal on the thumb with a hot iron and to watch 
him closely until he sailed for France. However, 
all this was better than being hanged, the penalty 
freely administered by the civil authorities in those 
days, and as a consequence Beverley always had 
a large nimiber of "undesirable citizens" within her 
borders. 

There is much else of interest in the minster, 
though we may not linger over its attractions save 
to mention the Percy tomb, reputed the finest in 
Europe — and indeed, its rare marbles and delicate 
sculptures must represent a princely fortune. Nor 
could we have more than a passing glimpse of St. 
Mary's Church, second only to the minster in im- 
portance, for Beverley is the only town in England 
of anywhere near its size that has the distinction of 
possessing two churches of really the first magni- 
tude. 

Following the road from Beverley to the coast 
162 



PROM YORKSiHIRE COAST TO BARNARD CASTLE 

by Great Driffield and Bridlington, we had a 
glimpse near the latter place of the high cliff of Flam- 
borough Head, from which the startled Yorkshire- 
men of a century or more ago saw the "pirate,** 
John Paul Jones, win his ever memorable victory 
over the Serapis. It is not a subject even to this day 
which the natives can discuss with entire equa- 
nimity. 

The road closely follows the coast to Scar- 
borough, the queen of Yorkshire watering-places. 
We caught frequent glimpses of the ocean, which, 
once out of the shadows of the towering cliffs, 
stretched away until its deep — almost metallic — 
blue faded against the silvery horizon. We soon 
found ourselves on the handsome main street of the 
new town, which brought us to the waterfront at 
the foot of castle hill. An old man approached us, 
seeing our hesitation, and informed us that the new 
road around the promontory, one of the finest drives 
in England, was open — not officially open, to be 
sure, and it would not be until some of the "Nobs" 
came and the ceremonies of a formal dedication 
were performed. The road had been cut in the 
almost sheer side of the cliff, a broad driveway over- 
looking the varied scenery of coast and ocean — the 
latter now as mild and softly shimmering as a quiet 
inland lake. One could only imagine, on such a 
day, how the sea must rage and thunder against 

163 



IN UNFAMILIAR BNGLrAND 

the promontory in wild weather, and we learned 
that storms interfered much with the building of the 
road, one of them causing damage estimated at fifty 
thousand pounds. But Scarborough persevered 
and the splendid driveway had just been completed. 
Later we had the satisfaction of learning from the 
newspapers that the Princess of Wales had visited 
Scarborough for the express purpose of formally 
dedicating the road with all the ceremony so dear 
to the English. 

Scarborough is unique in its combination of 
the old and the modem; but few of its rivals can 
boast of a castle with a history reaching back to 
the wars with the Danish invaders. Brighton and 
Eastbourne, sometimes ranked with Scarborough, 
are quite recent and lack the distinction that comes 
of centuries. Scarborough Castle, perched on its 
mighty rock, still presents a formidable appearance 
and impresses one with the tremendous strength its 
situation and heavy walls gave it before gunpowder 
brought such things to naught. From the keep 
tower a far-reaching prospect lies beneath us; a 
panorama of the sea chafing on the broken coast, 
and to the landward are the barren moors that en- 
circle the town. There is not much of the fortress 
left, but the fragments are carefully guarded from 
decay and in places have been somewhat restored. 
There is a museum near the entrance to the keep, 

164 



FROM YORKSHIRE OOAjST TO BARNARD CASTLE 

with a miscellaneous collection of relics, more or 
less gruesome, unearthed about the town and castle. 
Few indeed are the places which bring back 
more delightful memories or a greater longing to 
return than Whitby — old, straggling, storm-beaten 
Whitby — climbing up its steep hill crowned by 
one of the most unique churches and stateliest abbey 
ruins in all Britain. The road which takes us from 
Scarborough to its ancient rival is a wild one, wand- 
ering around the black, heather-splotched hills with 
trying grades which make careful driving necessary. 
To the right the ocean still shimmers in the setting 
sun and in nooks on the coast we catch glimpses of 
fishing villages — among them Robin Hood's Bay, 
called by some the most picturesque of the smaller 
fishing-towns in England. Long before we come 
into Whitby we catch sight of the skeleton of the 
abbey on the headland, standing almost weirdly 
against the evening sky. We descend a long, wind- 
ing hill and find ourselves threading our way through 
crooked, narrow streets thronged with people who 
get out of the way only when they have to. Pass- 
ing between rows of old houses crowding closely 
on either hand, we cross the bridge over the inlet 
and ascend the sharp hill where the hotels face the 
towTi and abbey on the opposite cliff. Thither we 
wend our way after dinner, just as the daylight 
begins to fade, and passing through the devious 

165 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

Streets thronged with fisher folk and dirty youngsters, 
we ascend the ninety-nine broad stone steps by 
which one reaches the headland. 

The ruin is deserted and we find ourselves sole 
possessors of Whitby Abbey at an hour when the 
twilight softens the outlines and touches with gray 
and purple hues the old town at our feet and the 
rough moorland hills in the background, while the 
wide expanse of ocean glows mysteriously from the 
reflection of the dim-lit skies. The ruin rises 
abruptly from the soft greensward upon which the 
cows are contentedly grazing, and near at hand, 
gleaming darkly in the fading light, lies the fish pool, 
which lends much to the picturesqueness of the sur- 
roundings. The great church has fallen into com- 
plete ruin; decay is riot everywhere. Only half a 
century ago the central tower crashed to the earth, 
carrying many arches and pillars with it, and huge 
fragments of masonry still lie scattered about as if 
fallen from some thunder-riven cliff. 

Whitby Abbey is rich in legend, and at such 
an hour we will trouble ourselves little about sober 
fact — let mystery wrap the ruin even as the mantle 
of gathering darkness; for us it shall be only the 
"High Whitby's cloistered pile'* of romance. We 
pass outside the abbey confines and pause before 
St. Mary's Church, a long squat building with low 
tower, as bald and plain as the abbey is pretentious 

166 



TROM YORKSHIRE COAST TO BARNARD OASTLB 

and ornate. It was built as a rival to the abbey 
church in a very early day when there were bicker- 
ings between the townspeople and the monks of 
Whitby. In the churchyard, thick with moulder- 
ing memorials, has lately been raised a Saxon cross, 
inscribed to the memory of Caedmon, Father of 
English Letters, who "fell asleep hard by A. D. 
680.*' 

As we return to our hotel, we are attracted 
into one of the old-town shops by a display of old 
brass and silver, and the genial proprietor at once 
establishes a basis of community, for has he not been 
in the States and has he not a brother there now? 
We pick up an antique lantern with dingy horn doors 
and green with verdigris and try the stale joke, 
**Made in Birmingham," which once or twice has 
brought a storm of indignant protest on our heads. 
But it does not so excite our Yorkshire friend. 

"Yes," he said, **I had a dozen copies made of 
a very rare piece that came into my hands. And 
that accounts for the price — genuine antiques are so 
rare and so sought for that the original would cost 
you many times the copy — and after all, you would 
be no better off when you had it." 

We cannot resist such confidence and add fur- 
ther to our burden of oddities such as one gathers, 
willy nilly, in a tour of the nooks and corns. Whitby 
shops are full of jet ornaments — ^brooches, beads, 

167 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

bracelets, and a thousand and one fanciful things — 
for jet is mined near the town, — a smooth lustrous 
substance whose name has come to signify the final 
degree of blackness. 

On the following day we again wander about 
the old-world streets of the town, which we find 
ourselves loath to leave. The morning's catch is 
just in at the fish-market and the finny tribes of all 
degrees are sorted on the pavement and sold to the 
towTispeople. The fishing industry of Whitby is 
now on a small scale only; in former days it con- 
stituted a source of some wealth. The ballad writer 
celebrating Robin Hood's visit to Whitby gives this 
very good reason: 

"The fishermen more money have 
Than any merchants two or three." 
And thus the sturdy highwayman found it easy to 
replenish his exchequer from the fat purses of 
Whitby folk. It may be, though, that the isolated 
situation of the town between the wild moors and 
the sea, and its good harbor for small vessels, made 
the occupation of smuggling especially profitable, 
and the wealth of the old-time citizens of Whitby 
may have been augmented by this practice. 

Our route out of the town led through the 
Cleveland Hills, the roughest and loneliest of the 
Yorkshire moors. We climbed many steep, rugged 
hills and dropped down sharp, dangerous slopes; 

168 




lA ( 'J^L/ W JrtiTBY. 

From Original Painting by R. E. Morrison, Royal Cambrian 
Academy, 1908. 



PROM YORKSHIRE COAST TO BARNARD CASTLE 

one will hardly find elsewhere in England a country 
scored more deeply by narrow valleys. There is little 
of life on the twenty-five miles of road to Guis- 
borough, where one comes out of the moor into 
the wide valley of the Tees. Guisborough is a 
bleak little town whose beautiful surroundings have 
been marred by the mines. Of its ancient priory, 
there remains only the magnificent eastern wall, 
pierced nearly to the top by tall lancet windows 
from which the stone tracery has long since van- 
ished. It stands in a wide meadow, half hidden 
by giant trees. As we glided along the highroad 
we caught glimpses of the wall, rising from a stretch 
of velvety lawn, but there was not enough of the 
ruin to make a nearer inspection worth while. 

From Guisborough our road ran through a 
level, fertile farming country. We missed Middles- 
brough, a manufacturing city of one hundred thou- 
sand, whose array of factory chimneys loomed up 
thickly across the fields, and soon came into Stock- 
ton-on-Tees, about half the size of its neighbor. 
It lies directly on the river, here a black, turbid 
stream, sullied by the factories that crowd its banks. 
We hesitated entering the Black Lion — it had an 
uncanny look that made us distrust even the infallible 
Baedeker. No one except the busy barmaids was 
to be seen. A few glances about the place con- 
firmed our suspicions and we "silently stole away." 

169 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

What a contrast to the Black Lion we found 
in its next-door neighbor, the Vane Arms, a fine 
type of the hospitable old-time English inn. Its 
massive, richly carved furniture would delight the 
heart of the connoisseur and is the pride of the 
stately landlady, who sat at the head of the table 
and treated us as though we were guests in more 
than the perfunctory hotel parlance. In the desert 
of daily hotel life one does not easily forget such 
an oasis as the Vane Arms. It is the only thing 
I can think of that might make one wish to linger 
in Stockton-on-Tees. 

The road to Darlington is excellent, though 
sinuous, and we found in that bustling city little 
evidence of the antiquity vouched for by its twelfth 
century church. It is now a railway center and 
has been since the first passenger train in England 
ran over the Darlington & Stockton Railway in 
1825. In going to Barnard Castle we proceeded 
by the way of Staindrop, though the direct road by 
the Tees is the best. But the route we chose passes 
Raby Castle, which burst on our view shortly be- 
fore we reached Staindrop, — a huge gray pile, half 
fortress, half palace, with many square battlemented 
towers and crenelated turrets, all combining to ful- 
fill the very ideal of the magnificence of feudal days. 

Permission to visit the castle was easily gained 
from the estate agent at Staindrop. It would be 

170 



FROM YORKSHIRE COAST TO BARNARD CASTLE 

hard to imagine anything more imposing than Raby 
Castle as we saw it on that perfect July day, its 
vast bulk massed against the green background of 
the wooded hills, and in front of it a fine lawn, 
with many giant elms, stretching down to the road; 
but does not our picture tell more than any words? 
We noted that few of the great private parks which 
we had visited were so beautifully kept or had so 
much to please and attract; the great trees, the lawn- 
like sward, the little blue lakes, the herds of tawny 
deer — all combined to form a setting fit for one of 
the proudest and best preserved of the ancient homes 
of England. 

The castle dates from the thirteenth century. 
By fortunate chance it escaped the ravages of war, 
and having been continuously occupied — indeed, 
there is a legend that its hearth-fire has never died 
out in five hundred years — it is one of the most per- 
fect examples of its type in England. The exter- 
ior has not been greatly altered, but inside it has 
been much modernized and transformed into a pala- 
tial and richly furnished residence. In the library 
is a collection of costly books; the gallery has many 
rare portraits and pictures; and scattered about the 
different apartments are many valuable objects of 
art, among these the famous marble, "The Greek 
Slave," by Powers, the American sculptor. 

Least altered of all is the medieval kitchen, 
171 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

which occupies the base of a large tower and is 
one of the most interesting features of the castle. 
Its immense size serves to impress upon one the 
proportions of feudal hospitality — that the lord of 
the castle must look above everything else to the 
good cheer of his guests. But there is a touch of 
modernism here, too, in the iron ranges which have 
superseded the great fireplace — perhaps thirty feet 
in width — of former times. 

Raby cannot greatly boast of historic events, 
yet it is interesting to know that it was once the home 
of the younger Sir Henry Vane, who was governor 
of the colony of Massachusetts Bay in 1636. It 
was built by the Nevilles in 1370, but passed to 
other hands two hundred years later, when that 
family took part in the Catholic uprising in the 
north. But after all, Raby is far more interesting 
as a survival of the "days of roselight and romance" 
than would be the story of the tenure of this or that 
forgotten lord or earl. 

Barnard Castle takes its name from the an- 
cient fortress whose scanty ruin still looms over the 
town. It stands on a cliff which drops from the 
castle wall almost sheer to the shallow Tees be- 
neath. One thinks first of Dickens* association with 
the town and naturally enough hastens to the King's 
Head, where the novelist's room is still shown. 

172 



FROM YORKSHIRE CO^ST TO BARNARD CASTLE 
Master Humphrey's clock, which adorned a build- 
ing just opposite the hotel, has disappeared — pur- 
chased by an American, a native told us with a 
shade of indignation in his voice — ^but the town it- 
self is little different from the one Dickens knew. 
He gained here much material for "Nicholas Nickle- 
by," though at Bowes, high on the moor to the 
westward, is supposed to have been the original of 
Dotheboys Hall. 

The King's Head we found a comfortable, 
well-managed, old-time inn, an excellent headquar- 
ters for excursions to the many interesting points 
of the vicinity. We reached here early in the after- 
noon, affording us time for a fifteen-mile jaunt up 
the Tees Valley to the High Force — they call a 
waterfall the "force" in Yorkshire — the largest cat- 
aract in England, we were told. It is situated in 
a lovely dell, and while the flood of white water 
pouring over the jagged cliff into the brown boil- 
ing lake below is pretty and striking, it has nothing 
awe inspiring or majestic about it. True, at the time, 
the Tees was at lowest ebb; a long drouth had re- 
duced it to a fourth its normal volume and of course 
we did not see the High Force at its best. Every 
spot of interest in the Kingdom has its inn and it was 
in the farmyard of the High Force Hotel that we 

left the car. On returning from the falls, a deflated 

173 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

tire prolonged our stay, encouraging acquaintance 
with the hotel people. The landlord, who out of 
the hotel season was apparently a farmer, became 
friendly and communicative, especially desiring us 
to deliver a message to his son, whom he seemed to 
think we might easily locate in America. Then he 
led us into the hotel, where a framed page from his 
visitors' book showed that the Princess Ena — now 
Queen Victoria of Spain — and members of her suite 
had been guests at the High Force Hotel. The two 
great events in the old man's life seemed to be the 
success that he considered his son was making in 
the States and the royal visit to his inn. I do not 
know which gave him the greater satisfaction. 

We returned to Barnard Castle following the 
road north of the Tees — we had come to Middleton 
on the south side of the river — and we had an al- 
most continual view of the winding stream and its 
pleasantly diversified valley. It was a peaceful 
rural landscape, glimmering in the twilight — the 
silver thread of the river running through it — that 
greeted our view during our swift flight along the up- 
land road. 

It was the end of a rather trying day and it 

seemed hardly possible that we had sojourned in 

Old Whitby only the night before — so different was 

174 



FROM YORKSHIRE OOAjST TO BARNARD OASTLB 

the scene and so varied our experiences; still, the 
distance in miles is not great. The restful quiet of 
the King's Head and its well-served dinner were 
indeed a welcome close to the wanderings of the 
day. 



175 



XI 

LAKELAND AND THE YORKSHIRE DALES 

During a tour such as ours one becomes im- 
pressed that a large proportion of Britain is in bar- 
ren moorlands or broken hills suitable only for sheep 
grazing — an impression made all the stronger by the 
diminutive size of the country. We in America 
can better afford our vast tracts of waste land; vv^c 
have fertile river valleys from which dozens of Eng- 
lands might be carved; but it seems almost melan- 
choly that at least a third of the Kingdom, no great- 
er in size than an average American state, should be 
almost as irreclaimable as the Sahara. One does 
not so much note this waste in railway travel, for 
the steam roads usually follow the valleys and low- 
lands, always green and prosperous, and naturally 
seek out the more populous centers. But the wag- 
on road climbed steep hills and wended its way into 
many retired sections where the steam engine cannot 
profitably go, and the motor car has opened to 
tourists a hitherto almost unexplored country. 

We were early away for Lakeland, and for 
miles and miles we traversed a rather inferior road 
through the moors and fells. Four or five miles out 

176 



LAKELAND AND THE YORKSHIRE DALES 

of Barnard Castle we passed through Bowes, a typ- 
ical Yorkshire moorland town stretching some dis- 
tance along the highroad. Though otherwise unin- 
teresting enough, Bowes has one distinction of which 
it is far from proud, for here Charles Dickens found 
the school which served as the prototype of Dothe- 
boys Hall in "Nicholas Nickleby." The building, 
altered into a tenement house and its evil reputation 
disguised under the more pleasing name of "The 
Villa," still stands at the western end of the town. 
In Dickens' day it was known as Shaw's School, 
and it seems that it deserved far less than many 
others of its class the overwhelming odium cast upon 
it in "Nicholas Nickleby"; and it is said that there 
still are people in Bowes who chafe at the injustice 
done their old-time townsman. But even if the 
Bowes school suffered some injustice, the purpose 
of Dickens was accomplished none the less in the 
reformation of the terrible juvenile workhouses which 
masqueraded as "schools." 

The moorland road carries us onward to 
Brough, a shabby, desolate town deep in the hills, 
with scarcely a touch of color to lighten its gray 
monotone. But this decayed village has its tradi- 
tions; it was once famous through all England for 
its annual horse fair. They tell us that the fair is 
still held in Brough, though its fame has long since 
declined and it is now of only local interest. 

177 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

At Appleby we enter the vale of the Eden, 
and bounding the western horizon we catch the 
first glimpse of the blue hills in whose deep de- 
pressions lie the English lakes. Appleby has a com- 
fortable hotel, where we pause for lunch, and the 
appearance of the town is better and more pros- 
perous than those we have recently passed. The 
square tower of the castle rises from an adjacent 
height and the church presents the remarkable spec- 
tacle of a hair dresser's rooms occupying a portion 
of the ancient cloisters which open on the market 
place. 

There is no finer highway in the north of Eng- 
land than the Carlisle road through Penrith. It 
pursues nearly if not quite the course of the old 
Roman road following the lowlands along the river 
— a broad white way which leads through a pleas- 
ant succession of fields and villages. We pass many 
ancient landmarks — on the left Brougham Castle, 
a red sandstone ruin splashed with ivy and creepers, 
and farther on to the right, Eden Hall, made famous 
by the ballad of Uhland. 

Penrith is a busy town of ten thousand or 
more, seemingly improved since our visit of four 
years before, when it had no electric light plant. It 
is the starting-point for most Lake District excur- 
sions, whether by rail or coach. TTie railway fol- 
lows the wagon road quite closely to Keswick and 

178 



LAKELAND AND THE YORKSHIRE DALES 

from thence one must have some other conveyance 
than rail to explore the region. And is it not 
well enough, for what impression worth while could 
one gain of Lakeland from a railway car? 

From Keswick we turn southward over the 
hills, from whose summits the landscape — every hill 
and vale redolent with music and memories of the 
"Lakers'* — stretches away beneath us, the lakes set 
in the valleys like great flashing gems. How famil- 
iar the odd names have been made by the poets of 
Lakeland! Skiddaw, Helvellyn, Borrowdale, 
Langdale Pikes and Fells. Rydal, Grasmere, and 
a hundred others — all call to mind the stanzas of 
Southey, Coleridge, and Wordsworth. 

Our road sweeps up and down the hills along 
the sinuous shores of Thirlmere, certainly one of the 
most picturesque of the bright sisterhood of Eng- 
lish lakes, but which now serves the very practical 
purpose of a source of water-supply for the city of 
Manchester, which acquired it by purchase. This 
transaction has aroused the indignation of a modern 
lake poet who falls little short of the best traditions 
of his illustrious predecessors and he makes vigorous 
protest against the cities whose "million- throated 
thirst" menaces the "sacred meres" of Lakeland. 
But the Manchester ownership — prosaic as it may 
be — has not detracted from the beauty of Thirlmere 

179 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

and many nuisances that once encumbered its shores 
have been abated. 

But the human interest of the lakes centers 
around Grasmere and Rydal Water. Perchance 
Rydal and Grasmere and Dove Cottage are out of 
place in a chronicle of unfamiliar England, and yet 
w^ho could w^rite of the Lake District with no refer- 
ence to the very attractions that have made it most 
famous? It is late as we pass the quaint old church 
"with bald bare tower" and pause at the cottage 
just off the highroad, where Wordsworth passed so 
many years in humble state that verged closely on 
poverty, as one would count it now. There is little 
of the picturesque in the gray-stone slate-roofed cot- 
tage, though the diamond-paned windows and the 
rose vines climbing to the eaves somewhat relieve 
the monotony of the square walls and the rude stone 
fence just in front. Like Shakespeare's house, it is 
now the property of an association which insures its 
preservation in memory of the poet. It has been 
restored as nearly as possible to the same condition 
as during the occupancy of the Wordsworths, and 
the collection of books and other relics pertaining to 
them is being constantly increased. 

It is easy for us to enter into the daily life 
of the poet as we pass through the small and rather 
rudely furnished rooms; and one must indeed be 
totally lacking in poetic instinct if he cannot feel 

180 



LAKELAND AND THE YORKSHIRE DALES 

at least a touch of sympathy with the pleasant sur- 
roundings so often the theme of the great 
laureate of the simple life. We sit in the rustic 
seat which Wordsworth was wont to occupy and 
can look over the gray roof of the cottage to the 
long succession of hills stretching away until 
their blue outlines are silhouetted against the sunset 
sky — verily an inspiration even to the most matter-of- 
fact intellect. We know that much of Words- 
worth's best work was composed in the little gar- 
den to the rear of the cottage — a bit of earth that 
he loved with an intensity that has found more than 
one expression in his written words. And it was 
of the very seat upon which we sit that he wrote: 
"Beneath these fruit tree boughs that shed 

Their snow-white blossoms on my head. 

With brightest sunshine round me spread 
Of spring's unclouded weather, 

In this sequestered nook how sweet 

To sit upon my orchard seat! 

And birds and flowers once more to greet 
My last year's friends together." 

But to know more of the simple, happy life 
at Dove Cottage, one may read from the letter writ- 
ten by Dorothy in 1800: 

"We are daily more delighted with Grasmere 

and its neighborhood. Our walks are perpetually 

varied, and we are more fond of the mountains as 

181 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

our acquaintance with them increases. We have 
a boat upon the lake, and a small orchard and small- 
er garden, which, as it is the work of our own hands, 
we regard with pride and partiality. Our cottage is 
quite large enough for us, though very small; and 
we have made it neat and comfortable within doors ; 
and it looks very nice on the outside; for though 
the roses and honeysuckles which we have planted 
against it are only of this year's growth, yet it is 
covered all over with green leaves and scarlet flow- 
ers; for we have trained scarlet beans upon threads, 
which are not only exceedingly beautiful but very 
useful, as their produce is immense. We have made 
a lodging-room of the parlor below stairs, which 
has a stone floor, therefore we have covered it all 
over with matting. We sit in a room above stairs, 
and we have one lodging-room with two single beds, 
a sort of lumber-room, and a small low unceiled 
room, which I have papered with newspapers, and 
in which we have put a small bed." 

But come! We may not stop at Dove Cot- 
tage for the night; it would now offer but sorry 
cheer, and Windermere seems the most available 
place to tarry. We pass close to the water's edge 
along Grasmere, and Rydal brings up new associa- 
tions of the poet — here on the "Mount" overlooking 
the tiny lake is the house where Wordsworth lived 
in his later and more prosperous years, still the home 

182 



LAKELAND AND THE YORKSHIRE DALES 

of his granddaughter, we are told. But the tripper 
is not welcome and the envious tangle of trees and 
shrubbery denies to the wayfarer even a glimpse of 
the house. 

The beautiful situation of the Lowwood Ho- 
tel attracts our attention as we follow the margin of 
the lake, but we pass on in our swift race for Win- 
dermere. Coming thither we inquire of a police- 
man in the market place for the best hotel. He is 
diplomatic enough to disclaim fitness to judge, but 
adds confidentially, "You'll make no mistake if you 
go to the Hold Hengland; that's where the quality 
goes." We thank him — praise Heaven that is all 
one is expected to do, or in fact, may do for a po- 
liceman in Britain! — ^but when we view the Old 
England we are seized with regret that we passed 
Lowwood with its magnificent frontage on the lake. 
It is nothing to retrace the half dozen miles to the 
most pretentious hotel in the Lake District, though 
probably far from the most comfortable, and cer- 
tainly anything but the place for travelers of an 
economical turn. What motorist could forget or 
forgive the charge of half a crown for simple garage 
— two and one-half times the standard price in Eng- 
land! Still, the view of the lake from Lowwood 
as the evening falls compensates for many short- 
comings. The twilight has transformed the limpid 
waters into a sheet of dull silver, touched with faint 

183 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

rose hues from the last glow of the sun. The hilk 
beyond stand in dark blue outline against a pale 
opalescent sky and the dim gray towers of Wray 
Castle rear their massive bulk in the foreground. 
There is no more enchanting view from the shores 
of Windermere Lake and we saw it under the most 
favorable conditions. 

A sharp change has come over the scene when 
we resume our journey in the morning. A light 
rain is falling and the mist hovering over the lake 
half hides the distant hills. Gray tones predominate 
everywhere, contrasting cheerlessly with the brit 
liance of the preceding day. But such a day may 
be looked for as the rule rather than the exception, 
for the rainfall of the Lake District is much the 
heaviest in England. We pass Ambleside at the 
head of the lake, and follow the steep, ill-kept road, 
slippery from the rain, to Coniston, a very quiet vil- 
lage, nestling at the foot of the great hills at the head 
of Coniston Water. In the churchyard here John 
Ruskin was laid to rest — a Celtic cross marks the 
spot — and a museum in the town contains many 
of his sketches and manuscripts. The road south- 
ward closely follows Coniston Water, though with 
many slight but sharp undulations, winding through 
a dense growth of young trees. We pass directly 
under Brantwood, the plain old house where Rus- 
kin lived, and catch glimpses of the oriel window of 

184 



LAKELAND AND THE YORKSHIRE DALES 

leaded glass in which he was wont to sit at his work. 
The house is situated on a wooded hillside and com- 
mands a fine view of the lake. The road from 
Brantwood to the end of the lake is so narrow, so 
tortuous and so obscured by the trees that extreme 
caution is necessary. It is still early and the way is 
quite clear; we experience no trouble, yet we are 
glad indeed to get into the main road to Dalton and 
Ulverston. 

Furness Abbey, once neglected and rather in- 
accessible, has more recently become one of the best 
known and most easily reached of the historic spots 
of northern England. Among the multifarious ac- 
tivities of the late Duke of Devonshire, was the 
building of the railroad that leads to Barrow-in- 
Furness and the development of that town into an 
important port of sixty thousand inhabitants. A 
few miles north of the town are the extensive ruins 
of Furness Abbey, a Cistercian foundation of the 
twelfth century, situated in a narrow valley under- 
neath overshadowing hills from which the red sand- 
stone used in the building was taken. The keen 
business sense of the duke recognized in this splen- 
did ruin a decided factor to assist in his plan of de- 
yelopment. The grounds surrounding the abbey 
were converted into a handsome park, a station was 
opened on the railroad just opposite, and a large 
hotel was built near by. 

185 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

Furness Abbey, however, carefully groomed 
and in charge of voluble guides posted in the minut- 
est detail of architecture and history, can hardly im- 
press one as it did when, a lonely and crumbling 
ruin, it was the goal of only the infrequent visitor. 
Its story is a long one but of interest only to the 
specialist or antiquarian. To the layman the tales 
of the different abbeys seem wonderfully alike: 
founded in religious zeal, a period of penury, then 
of prosperity, and finally one of great power and af- 
fluence. Then came the quarrel of Henry VIII. 
with Rome and through the activity of the king's 
agents the abbeys were plundered and partially des- 
troyed. The direct damage inflicted by the looters 
was usually limited to tearing the lead from the 
roofs, smashing the windows, and defacing the 
tombs. Then followed the long ages of neglect and 
the decay consequent upon the rains of summer and 
the storms of winter. But more than all other 
causes that contributed to the ruin and sometimes 
complete effacement of the magnificent abbey 
buildings, was the vandalism that converted them in- 
to stone walls and hovels — every one became the 
neighborhood quarry and in many instances we owe 
the fragments that remain to the solidity that made 
tearing down a difficult task. 

Furness Abbey is well worth a visit. While 
only fragments of its walls remain, excavations have 

186 



LAKELAND AND THE YORKSHIRE DALES 

been made with such care and intelligence that one 
has the whole groundwork of the great establish- 
ment before him and may gain from it an excellent 
idea of monastic life. With the sole exception of 
Fountains, it is probably the most extensive monastic 
ruin in Britain, and while it lacks much of the 
beauty and impressiveness of its Yorkshire rival, it 
serves to give one a better insight into the daily 
life of the ancient occupants. Judged by our 
standard, it must have been a rigorous, cheerless life, 
though it probably contrasted more favorably with 
conditions of its own time. There is today a grow- 
ing belief that, on the average, the life of the monks 
was not so easy nor so corrupt as apologists for the 
ruthless despoilation of the abbeys would have us 
think. 

I have consumed in these vagaries the space 
that I should have devoted to the description of the 
abbey; but descriptions are easy to be had and 
the best of them will fall short of the interest and 
beauty that awaits the visitor to the charming 
Lancashire ruin. One may well stay a day at the 
hotel, than which there are few in England more 
comfortable, more beautifully located, or better in 
appointment. 

We have covered three thousand miles in our 

wanderings and a certain weariness possesses us. 

We feel that a rest of a day or two will not come 

187 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

amiss, and no place within reach appeals to us as 
old York. To our notion the resort towns with 
their ostentatious hotels — Harrogate and Ilkley are 
nearer — cannot compare with the cathedral city 
and its Station Hotel as a place where one may be 
at ease. The Station, with its unpretentious and 
prosaic name, is the property of the railway company, 
a great rambling building of yellow brick, unham- 
pered by limitations of space and so arranged that 
every guest-room has light and air from the outside. 
There are spacious and finely kept grounds in front 
and at some distance to the rear is the station, but 
not close enough to disturb the quiet of the hotel. 
But York is full two days' journey at our rate 
of traveling; there is much to see on the way and 
our route will be anything but a direct one. We 
leave Furness Abbey in the early afternoon and the 
skies, which had cleared as we reached Coniston, are 
lowering again. The road by which we came 
carries us to Ulverston, and from thence we soon 
come to Lake Side, at the lower end of Winder- 
mere. The fine road to the north closely skirts the 
lake, but the trees stand so thickly that we catch 
only occasional glimpses of the water. A light 
summer shower is falling, and the fleeting sun and 
shadow over the mirrorlike surface, mottled with 
patches of gleaming blue and almost inky black- 
ness, gives us another of the endless phases of the 

188 



LAKELAND AND THE YORKSHIRE DALES 

beauty of Lakeland. For seven or eight miles we 
keep close to the shore, through Bowness to Winder- 
mere, two quiet little towns largely given over to 
hotels and lodging-houses. The great vogue of 
the Lake District as a resort is comparatively re- 
cent, and as a consequence one finds in these towns 
a mingling of the ancient and modern. Winder- 
mere, which grew out of the little village of Births- 
waite, is especially accessible, being reached in 
about an hour by train from Manchester. 

Kendal, the county town of Westmoreland, is 
only seven or eight miles from Windermere. Once 
a manufacturing center of importance, famous for 
its woolens and "Kendal Green," it has been grad- 
ually transformed into a quiet, unprogressive market 
town. The King's Arms Hotel is one of the most 
typical and interesting of the old-time buildings. It 
abounds in narrow hallways, odd corners, beamed 
ceilings and paneled rooms, all behind a very com- 
mon and unpretentious exterior. We have noted 
many narrow alleys leading into the main street and 
some of these still have heavy gates at the entrance. 
We are told that Kendal suffered from frequent 
incursions of the Scots during the almost endless 
years of border strife, and these alleys afforded quick 
refuge for the citizens of the town. The gates were 
closed and the marauders thus confined to the main 
street, where they became easy targets for the men 

189 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

behind the barriers. But no such exciting incident 
breaks the sleepy quiet of Kendal today, though 
the scene before us is not without animation. It is 
market day and the streets are thronged with farm- 
ers from the prosperous valley in which the town is 
situated. Cattle, sheep and produce seem to be 
the chief topics of conversation so far as we can 
gather from snatches of the broad North Country 
dialect of the men about the town. 

Our stay at Kendal is a short one — we are 
soon away for the 

"Yorkshire Dales, 

Among the rocks and winding scars. 
Where deep and low the hamlets lie 
Beneath their little patch of sky 

And little lot of stars.** 

So Wordsworth describes the narrow green valleys 
running between the long ridges of moorland hills 
and opening into the wide fertile plain in the center 
of which stands the city of York. 

We drop southward for some little distance 
and then turn to the east, through the very heart 
of the hills. Just before we come to Settle, our 
attention is attracted by a group of people looking 
curiously into a stone trough by the wayside. There 
are expressions of disappointment — "It's not work- 
ing today.** We are told that this is Settle*s ebbing 

190 



LAKELAND AND THE YORKSHIRE DALES 

and flowing well, famous over all Yorkshire and 
concerning which a learned antiquary has written 
a book. But the well is out of commission today — 
the long drouth has affected the spring until for the 
second time in the last twenty-five years the phe- 
nomenon has ceased. Ordinarily there is a regular 
ebb and flow of the waters at intervals of from five 
to fifteen minutes. It is known that this strange 
spring has been in existence for hundreds of years, 
but the phenomenon has never been satisfactorily 
explained. 

A little farther we find a striking instance of 
how a bad name will linger long after its original 
significance has vanished; for Hellifield was once 
Hell-in-the-Field, because of its reputation for wick- 
edness. But surely this straggling little village hard- 
ly looks its formidable cognomen today. A few 
miles on the Skipton road brings us in view of a 
strangely incongruous spectacle; on one of the rough 
hills an oriental temple stands with huge dome and 
slender minarets sharply outlined against the evening 
sky — a sight that almost savors of enchantment in 
such surroundings. But it is real enough, for an 
eccentric Londoner who embraced Buddhism some 
years ago, spent a fortune in erecting this temple 
on the bare northern hills. 

Skipton is near the head of Airedale, but we 

see here no sign of the multitudinous factories that 

191 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

taint the skies and sully the waters farther down the 
Aire, which, if one were to follow it for twenty-five 
miles, would take him through the heart of Leeds. 
But Skipton is only a market town — fairly prosper- 
ous, for the narrow vale which surrounds it is famed 
as one of the richest pastoral bits of Yorkshire. 
The fading light accentuates the gray monotone of 
the old houses, and gives a further touch of cheer- 
lessness to the somewhat bleak aspect of the place. 
The large market square is paved with cobblestones 
and around it in promiscuous array stand public and 
business buildings, among them two hotels, large 
but rather unprepossessing structures. A hurried 
glance at the interior of each confirms our first im- 
pressions and we bid Skipton a hasty farewell. We 
pass under the high walls of the old castle to reach 
the Ilkley road. The grim gateway is flanked by 
two huge embattled round towers 2ind the walls are 
pierced by small mullioned windows. Skipton Cas- 
tle was once the stronghold of the Cliffords, and some 
say the birthplace of Fair Rosamond, rather than 
the almost vanished castle on the Welsh Wye, which 
also claims the distinction — if indeed it be such. It 
is wonderfully well preserved — few other Yorkshire 
castles can vie with it in this particular — and stands 
today as sullen and proud as it must have seemed 
when the wars of the Roses swept over the land. 

A narrow upland road bordered by stone fences 
192 



LAKEiIiAND AND THE YORKSHIRE DADES 

and leading through bleak hills carries us over the 
moorland ridge that lies between Airedale and 
Wharfdale, and on entering the latter, the com- 
fortable-looking Devonshire Arms stands squarely 
across our way. We find it a quiet, pleasant place, 
seemingly half inn and half home for the family 
of the genial landlord. It is situated near the en- 
trance to the grounds of Bolton Abbey and its 
pretty gardens to the rear slope down to the rip- 
pling Wharfe. The inn is the property of the Duke 
of Devonshire, to whom the abbey grounds belong, 
and as he was averse to Sunday visitors at the abbey, 
the hotel is licensed as a "six-day house." No one 
may be taken in and no meal served to anyone not 
already a guest, on Sunday. When we left the 
hotel we did not expect to return, and by paying 
our bill practically gave up our status as guests of 
the Devonshire Arms. But it chanced that we were 
back in time for lunch and a serious discussion took 
place between our landlord and his assistants as to 
whether we might be accommodated or not. It was 
finally decided to stretch a point in our favor and to 
assume that we had not severed our relations when 
we left in the morning. 

A desire possesses us to see something of the 
most retired portions of the Yorkshire moors and 
from Skipton we start due north over the hills. We 
pass Rylstone, the tiny village given to fame by 

193 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

Wordsworth in his ballad, **The White Doe of 
Rylstone,** and re-enter Wharf dale at Grassington. 
The unbroken moors stretch northward on either 
side of the river — a country quite devoid of roads 
excepting the indifferent ones on each side of the 
Wharfe — to the village of Kettlewell. We follow 
the right-hand road, narrow, steep and winding, 
and altogether a severe test for a motor. Fortunate- 
ly it is quite clear, for in many places vehicles could 
scarcely pass each other. Nothing could be harsher 
and bleaker than the country, even as we saw it in 
the prime of summer time, and the little towns seem 
almost a part of the country itself. It would be 
hard to imagine that there was ever a time when 
Grassington, Coniston or Kettlewell did not nestle, 
angular and weather-beaten, at the foot of the eternal 
hills, and they are as bare and as devoid of the pic- 
turesque touches of the village of southern England 
as the hills they lie beneath. They seem to have 
little excuse for existence and it is not clear to a 
casual visitor how the lonely moors that encircle 
them can afFord sustenance to their inhabitants. 
Lead-mining once employed many people, though 
at present most of the mines are exhausted. Kettle- 
well is in the very center of the moor; no railroad 
comes within many miles of the town. It lies along 
a narrow valley — a mere cleft in the hills — that 

opens into Wharfdale, which itself becomes very 

194 



LAKEiLAND AND THE YO!RKS«IRE DALEiS 

narrow here. It is a center for those who would 
explore the mysteries of the surrounding moors or 
who desire to hunt or fish in almost primal solitude. 
That there are many such visitors is attested by the 
rather good-looking inns at Kettlewell, and alto- 
gether, the village seems less forlorn than the others 
we have just passed. The place is not as quiet as 
one would expect from its retired location; coaches 
are discharging their loads of trippers and evidently 
do a thriving business. 

One might find it very interesting to continue 
northward to Askrigg, another old and quaint moor- 
land town, and from this to visit Wensleydale — 
which we do later — but our present plans do not 
contemplate this. The road is a very indifferent 
^ne, though probably not much worse than that over 
which we came. Returning from Kettlewell we 
take the opposite side of the Wharfe, passing at 
first close to the river and then beneath gray and 
red cliffs that ominously overhang the road. From 
the hill-crests at times we have wide panoramas of 
the dale, with the silver ribbon of the Wharfe steal- 
ing through it. The road takes us back to the vil- 
lage of Grassington; from thence we follow a road 
whose steep hills and sharp turns engage the closest 
attention of the driver until we reach the Devonshire 
Arms, as before related. 

A short cut across Rumbles Moor brings us 
196 



IN UNFAMILIAH ENGLAND 

to the road to Keighley, the last link in the chain 
of manufacturing towns stretching up the Aire from 
Leeds and which we must pass to reach Haworth, 
a name that suggests to anyone conversant with 
English letters the gifted but unfortunate Bronte 
family. Haworth has no doubt been influenced in 
population and activity by its busy neighbor, Keigh- 
ley, but the "four tough scrambling miles" that 
Charles Dickens found on his visit a third of a cen- 
tury ago still lie between. The whole distance is 
a continual climb, terminating at the top of the hill, 
to which the old town seems to cling rather precar- 
iously. Indeed, there were few more forbidding as- 
cents that confronted us than this terribly steep, 
rough street — so steep that the paving stones have 
been set on edge to enable the horses to climb it. 
It is bordered with old-world buildings, gray and 
weather-beaten, and forms a fit avenue to the church 
that dominates the town from the hill and whose 
massive square tower looks far over the desolate 
moorlands beyond it. We visited hundreds of an- 
cient churches in England and the surroundings of 
many were somber and even depressing, but surely 
none approached Haworth churchyard in the deep, 
all-pervading gloom that hovered over the black- 
ened and thickly clustered gravestones and dimmed 
the very sunlight that struggled through the trees 
which encircle the place. The hilltop is given up 

196 




:^c... 



LAKELAND AND THE YOIRKSHIRE DALES 

to the churchyard and there seems to be scarcely 
room for another grave, so thickly stand the moul- 
dering memorials, which mostly antedate the time of 
the Brontes. Out beyond, to the westward, lie the 
wild black and purple moors, sweeping away even 
higher than the church itself and ending in a long 
wave of hills rippling darkly against the horizon. 

When "Jsine Eyre," published in 1847, as- 
tonished the literary world, few indeed would have 
guessed that the humble authoress lived in this lonely 
village, then by far lonelier and more remote than 
it is today; and it is still a wonder how one with 
such surroundings and of such limited experience 
was able to fathom life so deeply. But one need 
not be at a loss to account for the strain of melan- 
choly that runs through the writings of the gifted 
sisters. The isolated, dreary village, the church and 
rectory, then almost ruinous, the desolate moor 
lands and the family tragedy — the only son dying 
an irreclaimable drunkard — might furnish a back- 
ground of gloom even for Wuthering Heights. The 
sisters rest in early graves, Charlotte, the eldest, dy- 
ing last, in 1855, at the age of thirty-nine. All, to- 
gether with the father and unhappy brother, are 
buried in Haworth churchyard save Anne, who lies 
in St. Mary's at Scarborough. 

Haworth has shared the growth in population 
that has filled Airedale with manufacturing towns 

197 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

and is now a place of some eight thousand people. 
It delights to honor the memory of its distinguished 
daughters, and the local Bronte Club has established 
a museum containing many interesting relics, manu- 
scripts, and rare editions. 

Retracing our route to Wharfdale, we follow 
the fine road through Ilkley and Otley into the broad 
green lowlands which surround Old York. There 
is no more beautiful country in England than that 
through which we course swiftly along. We catch 
continual vistas of the Wharfe, no longer a braw- 
ling moorland stream, but sleeping in broad, silvery 
reaches in the midst of the luxuriant meadows. We 
leave the river road for Harrogate, pause a few mo- 
ments to renew our acquaintance with quaint old 
Knaresborough, and from thence we glide over 
twenty miles of perfect road into York. 



198 



XII 

SOME NORTH COUNTRY SHRINES 

We have spacious quarters at the Station 
Hotel, our lattice windows opening upon a stone 
balcony beyond which we can see the fountain, 
flowers and shrubbery of the gardens, and farther 
away, against the purple sky, the massive yet grace- 
ful towers of the minster. How different the Sta- 
tion Hotel is from the average railway hotel in 
America can be appreciated only by one who has 
enjoyed the hospitality of the one and endured the 
necessity of staying at the other. We feel as nearly 
at home as one possibly may at a hotel, and the 
spirit of Shakespeare's worthy who proposes to take 
his ease at his inn comes upon us. We look for- 
ward with satisfaction to a short pause in the plea- 
sant old northern capital, whose splendid church 
and importance in ecclesiastical antiquity are ri- 
valled only by Canterbury. 

The two chief cathedral cities of England have 
many point of similarity, though in population and 
importance York easily leads. And yet, neith- 
er has ever been thoroughly modernized; the 
spirit and relics of ancient days confront one every- 

199 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

where and the great churches, while dissimilar, 
contest for supremacy among English cathedrals. 
While Canterbury has the greater historic interest 
and the tombs of many famous warriors and church- 
men, York Minster can boast of perhaps the finest 
windows in the world. But why should I compare 
or contrast these delightful towns? When one is 
in Canterbury there is no place like Canterbury, and 
when in York, why York is without a rival. And 
after all, neither has much claim to place in this chron- 
icle, which is not to tell of the familiar shrines. 

As might be expected, the vicinity of York 
abounds in magnificent country seats and historic 
mansions, many of which are open to the public 
on specified days. Of these, few are statelier than 
Castle Howard, the seat of the Earls of Carlisle, 
about fifteen miles to the northwest. It can boast of 
little historic interest, for it was built less than two 
hundred years ago, after the turmoil of internal war- 
fare had ceased in England. It is therefore not a 
castle in the accepted sense, but a stately private 
residence designed by Vanbrugh, the architect of 
Blenheim. Though its architectural faults have been 
enlarged upon by critics, none can gainsay the im- 
pressiveness of the building, and Ferguson, in his 
"History of Modern Architecture,** declares that it 
"would be difficult to point out a more imposing 

country home possessed by any nobleman in England 

200 



SOME NORTH COUNTRY SHRINES 

than this palace of the Howards/* With its central 
dome and purely classic facade, pierced by monot- 
onous rows of tall windows, it presents the aspect 
of a public building — reminding us of some of the 
state Capitols in America — rather than a private 
home. Though it serves as the home of the owner a 
considerable part of the time, it is really a great 
museum, rich in paintings and other works of art 
which have been accumulated by the family, whica 
has always been a wealthy one. 

The surroundings of the palace are in keeping 
with its vast size and architectural importance. It 
is situated in a large park and stands on slightly 
rising grounds overlooking a panorama of lawnlike 
meadows, diversified with fine trees and shimmering 
lakes. Near at hand are the somewhat formal 
gardens, ornamented with monuments and statuary. 
As a show place it is in much favor with the people 
of England and few of the great houses are more 
accessible to everyone. Though we did not arrive 
at the regular hour for visitors, we had little diffi- 
culty in gaining admission and were shown about 
as though we had been welcome guests rather than 
the nuisances which I fear ordinary tourists are often 
regarded in such places. The formality of securing 
tickets is not required and no admission fee is 
charged. 

While the interior of the palace is disappoint- 
201 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

ing — huge, cold, unhomelike rooms — its contents are 
of greatest interest. Among the pictures there are 
examples of English and foreign masters — Gains- 
borough, Lely, VanDyke, Reynolds, and many 
more — and there are treasures among the rare books, 
bronzes and sculptures which have been collected 
through many generations. The present earl is him- 
self a man of literary and artistic tastes, and numer- 
ous paintings, done by himself, hang in the galleries. 

From the large low windows an enchanting 
view presented itself. Stretches of beautiful park, 
dotted with ancient trees, through which gleamed 
the placid waters of the lake — now like dull silver, 
for the sky had become overcast — sloped away from 
the front, while to the rear lay the gardens with all 
the bloom of English summer time. Out just beyond 
these is a many-pillared circular structure, like a clas- 
sic temple, the burial-place of the Howards for many 
generations. Verily the surroundings almost savor 
of enchantment, and form, with the great mansion 
itself, a background of splendor and romance for 
the ancient family. And the very freedom with 
which such places are thrown open to people of all 
degrees does much to entrench the feudal system in 
England. 

But we have lingered long enough at Castle 
Howard; the sky is lowering and gray sheets of 
rain are sweeping through the trees. We hasten 

202 



SOME NORTH COUNTRY SHRINES 

to the trusty car and are soon ensconced beneath its 
rainproof coverings. It is gloomy and cheerless 
enough, but it would have seemed far more so could 
we have foreseen that for the next ten days the 
weather would be little better. One loses much 
under such conditions. The roads as a rule are not 
affected and with a reliable motor one may keep 
going quite as well as on sunshiny days; but the 
beauty of the landscapes will often be shut out, and 
a succession of dull, chilly days has a decidedly 
depressing effect on one's spirits. 

The direct route across the moor to Thirsk 
is impassable — the heavy rain has made it a trail of 
deep mud, and we dare not attempt its precipitous 
"bank" under such conditions. A detour of many 
miles by way of Easingwold is necessary, but once 
on the North Road there is ample opportunity io 
make up for delay. Country constables will hardly 
be abroad in the driving rain and the motor purrs 
quite as contentedly and drives the car quite as 
swiftly as in the sunniest weather. 

We splash through the streets of Thirsk with 
a glance at its church tower, the one redeeming 
feature of the town. The rain soon ceases, but a 
gray mist half hides the outlines of the Cleveland 
Hills on our right and hangs heavily over the fertile 
valley to our left. It is of little consequence, for 
there are few stretches of main road in England 

203 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

that have less to detain the wayfarer than the forty- 
eight miles from York to Stockton-on-Tees. Yarm 
is a sleepy town overshadowed by its majestic church 
tower, which again impresses us how the church 
alone often relieves the squalidness and gives a touch 
of sentiment to many an uninteresting English village. 
At Yarm we enter the broad vale of the Tees and 
again traverse the wide, unattractive street of Stock- 
ton. Twenty miles farther Durham*s stately towers 
loom in dim outline against the gray sky; we 
cautiously wend our way through the crooked streets 
of the cathedral town and plunge into the fog that 
hangs heavily over the Newcastle road. 

We come into Newcastle about lamplighting 
time, weary and somewhat bedraggled from our long 
flight over the rain-soaked roads. And Newcastle- 
on-Tyne, at the close of a rainy day, is about the 
last place to cheer one's drooping spirits. The lamps 
glimmer dimly through the fog as we splash along 
the bumpy streets to the Station Hotel — and few 
hostelries were more genuinely welcome during all 
our long wanderings. Nor is Newcastle less dingy 
and unattractive on the following morning — the 
rain is still falling and black clouds of sooty smoke 
hang over the place. London is bad enough under 
such conditions, but the Tyne city is worse and our 
first anxiety is to get on the open road again, although 

204 



SOME NORTH COUNTRY SHRINES 

it chanced we were doomed to disappointment for 
much of the day. 

Amidst all the evidences of modern industry — 
the coal-mining and ship-building that have made 
Newcastle famous — there still linger many relics of 
the ancient order, memorials of the day when all was 
rural and quiet along the Tyne. In the very midst 
of the factories and shipyards at Jarrow, a suburb 
a few miles down the river, still stands the abbey 
church where some thirteen hundred years ago the 
Venerable Bede v^ote those chronicles which form 
the basis of ancient English history. Thither we 
resolved to go and found the way with no small 
difficulty to the bald, half-ruined structure on the 
bank of a small stream whose waters reeked with 
chemicals from a neighboring factory. Though much 
restored, the walls and tower of the church are the 
same that sheltered the monastic brotherhood in the 
time of Bede, about the seventh century. The 
present monastic ruins, however, are of Norman ori- 
gin, the older Saxon foundation having quite dis- 
appeared. Several relics of Bede are preserved in 
the church, among them the rude, uncomfortable 
chair he is said to have used. Altogether, this shrine 
of the Father of English History is full of interest 
and when musing within its precincts one will 
not fail to recall the story of Bede's death. For tra- 
dition has it that "He was translating St. John's 

205 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

Gospel into English when he was attacked by a 
sudden illness and felt he was dying. He kept on 
with his task, however, and continued dictating to 
his scribe, bidding him write quickly. When he 
was told that the book was finished, he said. *You 
speak truth, all is finished now,* and after singing 
*Glory to God,' he quietly passed away.'* 

The Tyne valley road to Carlisle on the south 
side of the river by the way of Hexham looks very 
well on the map, but the run would be a wearisome 
one under favorable conditions; in the face of a con- 
tinual rain it is even more of a task, and no one 
motoring for pleasure should take this route. It is 
rough and hilly and runs through a succession of 
mining and manufacturing towns. The road follows 
the edge of the moorland hills to the southward, and 
in many places the hillsides afford wide views over 
the Tyne valley, but the gray rain obscured the 
prospect for us and only an occasional lull gave 
some hint of the broad vale and the purple Northum- 
brian Hills beyond. 

Hexham is beautifully situated a mile or two 
below the juncture of the northern and southern 
branches of the Tyne, lying in a nook of the wooded 
hills, while the broad river sweeps past beneath. 
The low square tower of its abbey church looms up 
over the town from the commanding hill. It is one 
of the most important In the North Country, rivaling 

206 



SOME NORTH COUNTRY SHRINES 

the cathedrals in proportions, and has only recently 
been restored. 

Here we crossed to the northern side of the 
river to reach the most stupendous relic of the Roman 
occupation of Britain — the wall which Hadrian built 
as a protection against the incursions of the wild 
northern tribes. This wall was seventy miles in 
length — from Tynemouth to the Solway — of an average 
thickness of eight feet and probably not less than 
eighteen feet in height. It surmounted the chain of 
hills overlooking the valley between Newcastle and 
Carlisle and was well supplied with military de- 
fenses in the shape of forts and battlemented towers. 
We closely followed the line of the wall from Choi- 
lerford to Greenhead, a distance of about fifteen 
miles. In places it is still wonderfully perfect, being 
built of hevm stone, well fitted and carefully laid, 
as it must have been to stand the storms of eighteen 
hundred years; but most of the distance the course 
of the wall is now marked only by an earthen ridge. 

We had seen many relics of the Roman rule 
in England at Bath, at York, and also the remark- 
able remains of Uriconium near Shrewsbury, but 
nothing so impressed us with the completeness of the 
Roman occupation as this great wall of Hadrian. 
And it also testifies mutely to the great difficulty the 
Roman legions must have experienced in controlling 
the light-armed bandits from across the border, in 

207 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

a day when the means of communication were so 
few and so slow. This situation continued until sev- 
eral hundred years later, the country along theTyne, 
the narrow neck of land connecting England and 
Scotland, being the scene of constant turmoil and 
bloody strife. The wild tribes of the northern hills 
would sweep down into the valley, leaving a strip of 
burned and plundered country, and before soldiers 
could be gotten into the field the marauders would 
retreat to their native fastnesses. One might not 
telephone to Carlisle that the Campbells or McGreg- 
ors were raiding the country, and troops could not 
be hurried by railroad to the scene of trouble. Before 
the horseback messenger could reach the authorities, 
the marauders v/ould have disappeared. This con- 
dition of things the Romans sought to overcome by 
building the great wall and one can hardly doubt 
that they chose the best means at their command; 
but the history of those times is hazy at best and 
we can learn little of what was really accomplished 
by this stupendous undertaking. 

The road through the rough Northumbrian hills 
is as lonely and desolate as any one will find in Eng- 
land. So much has it fallen into disuse that the 
grass and heather have almost obliterated it in places, 
and it appeared that little had been done to main- 
tain it for years. The cheerless day accentuated 
the dreariness of the rough countryside; the rain had 

208 



SOME NORTH COUNTRY SiHRINES 

increased to a downpour and had blown in upon us 
in spite of our coverings. The road was clear, fairly 
level and straight away; despite its rough surface we 
splashed onward at a swift pace through the pools 
and rivulets that submerged it in places. 

Naworth Castle, also an estate of the Earl of 
Carlisle, the owner of Castle Howard, is just off 
the road before entering Brampton, eight or nine 
miles out of Carlisle. It is thrown open with the 
same freedom that prevails at the great Yorkshire 
house, but though the greater part of Naworth is 
far older, it has less to interest the casual visitor. 
Situated as it is in the very center of the scenes of 
border turmoil, it has a stirring history dating back 
to 1 300, when it was built by Lord Dacre, ancestor 
of the Howards. The story of his elopement with 
the heiress who owned the estate and who was be- 
trothed to a boy of seven, and of the subsequent par- 
don of the lovers by the King Edward, forms a 
romantic background for the stern-looking old place; 
but we will not recount the many legends that 
gathered about the castle during the long period of 
border warfare. Escaping almost unscathed during 
the castle-smashing time of Cromwell, Naworth suf- 
fered severely from fire in 1844, but the interior has 
since been remodeled into a fairly comfortable mod- 
ern dwelling. Here again the artistic and literary 

209 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

tastes of the owner are evident in the valuable library 
and the fine gallery of paintings. 

Continuing our way through Naworth Park, 
we drop down the narrow and fearfully steep lane 
to the vale of the Irthing and cross over the old 
high-arched bridge to Lanercost Priory. The rain 
is still falling and no doubt the custodian has given 
up hope of visitors on such a day, for he cannot be 
found; but we discover the gardener, who secures 
the keys from the neighboring rectory and proves 
himself a capable guide. The abbey church has 
been restored by the Carlisles and is used by the 
parish as a place of worship. All about are the red 
sandstone ruins of a once great monastery. We 
wander among the mossy grave-stones and crumbling 
tombs, 

"The *Miserere' in the moss. 
The *Mercy Jesu' in the rain," 

calling up thoughts of a forgotten order of things. 
In the roofless chapel we pause before an altar-tomb, 
its sandstone bosses water-soaked and crumbling in 
the rain — it is the oldest in the abbey and covers the 
grave of Lord Roland de Vaux of Triermaine, 
an ancestor of the Dacres. The name seems familiar 
and the lines, 

"Murmuring over the name again. 
Lord Roland de Vaux of Triermaine," 

210 



SOME NORTH COUNTRY SHRINES 

come unbidden to my mind. Ah, yes! it is in the 
weird music of "Christabel'* that the name of the 
long-dead baron is interwoven, and perhaps his 
"castle good*' was the predecessor of Naworth. 
There are other elaborate tombs of the Dacres and 
Howards, and there is a world of pathos in Sir Ed- 
ward Boehm's terra cotta effigy of little Elizabeth, 
daughter of the present earl, who died in 1883. It 
is the figure of an infant child asleep, with one little 
rounded arm thrown above the head and the other 
folded gracefully on the breast, while a quiet smile 
plays over the dimpled face — 

But come — it is late, and Lanercost Priory 
would be gloomy enough on such a day without the 
infant figure. We retrace our way through the ivy- 
mantled portal and hasten through the park to the 
Carlisle road, which shortly brings us to the border 
city, and grateful indeed is the old-fashioned hospi- 
tality of the County Hotel, one of the most pleasant 
among the famous inns of the North Country. 



211 



XIII 

ajcross the tweed 

Gretna Green is a disappointingly modern- 
looking hamlet, and has little to accord with the ro- 
mantic associations that its name always brings up. 
In olden days it gained fame as a place where mar- 
riages were accomplished with an ease and celerity 
that is rivalled in our time only by the dissolution 
of the tie in some of our own courts. Hither the 
eloping couples hastened from England, to be united 
with scarcely other ceremony than mutual promises 
— witnesses were not required — and a worthy black- 
smith did a thriving business merely by acting as 
clerk to record the marriages. The ceremony was 
legally valid in Scotland and therefore had to be 
recognized in England, according to mutual agree- 
ment of the nations to recognize each other's insti- 
tutions. But today Gretna Green's ancient source 
of fame and revenue has vanished; no Young Loch- 
invars flee wildly across the Solway to its refuge; 
it is just a prosaic Scotch village, whose greatest ex- 
citement is occasioned by the motor cars that sweep 
through on the fine Edinburgh road. 

Quite different is the fame of Ecclefechan, a 

212 



ACIROSS THE TWEED 

few miles farther — a mean-looking village closely 
skirting the road for a half-mile. Typically Scotch 
in its bleakness and angularity, it seems fittingly in- 
deed the birthplace of the strange genius who was, 
in some respects, the most remarkable man of letters 
of the last century. Thomas Carlyle was born here 
in 1 795 and sleeps his last sleep, alone, in the vil- 
lage kirkyard, for Jane Welsh is not buried by his 
side. As we came into the town, we paused di- 
rectly opposite the whitewashed cottage where the 
sage was born and which is still kept sacred to his 
memory. The old woman caretaker welcomed us 
in broadest Scotch and showed us about with unal- 
loyed pride and satisfaction. Here are gathered 
mementoes and relics of Carlyle — books, manuscripts 
and pictures; the memorial presented him in 1875, 
bearing the signature of almost every noted literary 
contemporary; the wreath sent by Emperor William 
in 1895 to be laid on the grave; and other things of 
more or less curious significance. The cottage it- 
self is a typical home of the Scotch villager, the 
tiny rooms supplied with huge fireplaces and the 
quaint old-time kitchen still in daily use by the care- 
taker. The house was built by Carlyle's father, a 
stonemason by trade, to whose "solid honest work" 
the distinguished son was wont proudly to refer on 
divers occasions. The motor car is awakening 
Ecclefechan to the fact that it is the birthplace of a 

213 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

man famous the world over, for they told us that 
many visitors now came like ourselves. 

There are no finer stretches of road in Scot- 
land than the broad, beautifully engineered high- 
way from Carlisle to Lanark, winding among the 
hills with grades so gentle as to be almost impercep- 
tible. The rain, which followed us since we left 
Carlisle, has ceased and many panoramas of hill 
and valley He before us. Oftentimes the low-hung 
clouds partially obscure the view, but aside from 
this the scene stretches away clear and sharp to the 
gray belt of the horizon. We are passing through 
the hills of Tintock Moor, which Bums has sung as 

"Yon wild mossy mountains so lofty and wide 
That nurse in their bosom the youth of the 
Clyde/' 

They may have seemed "lofty and wide*' to the 
poet who never left his native soil, but they are 
only low green hills. The river here is little more 
than a brawling brook, leaping through the stony 
vale. 

Before we came into Edinburgh we paused at 
Rosslyn Chapel, perhaps, after Melrose, Abottsford 
and Ayr, the most frequented shrine in all Scotland. 
Conveyances of all kinds ply continuously from Edin- 
burgh during the season, and though the day was not 
especially favorable, we found a throng at the chap- 

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ACROSS THE TWEED 
el. The chapel is admittedly the most elaborate 
Gothic building in Britain. The intricacy and 
minuteness of detail are simply marvelous and com- 
pel the admiration of even those who condemn the 
ornamentation as overdone and wearisome when 
studied closely; still, Sir Gilbert Scott designated 
Rosslyn as **a poem in stone/* and Wordsworth 
was so impressed that he wrote one of his finest son- 
nets in praise of it. 

One must of course hear the oft-told story of 
the master workman who, puzzled over the intri- 
cate drawings of one of the carved pillars, went to 
Rome to consult the architect of the Vatican; but 
while he was away his apprentice solved the prob- 
lem and when the builder returned the finished col- 
umn greeted his eyes. He was so enraged at the 
success of the apprentice in overcoming the diffi- 
culty that he struck the poor youth dead at the foot 
of the pillar and was hanged for the crime. Any- 
way, the pillar is there and it is not at all unlikely 
that the master workman was hanged — a very com- 
mon incident in those days. 

Nor will the guide forget to remind you that 
in the vault beneath your feet the barons of Ross- 
lyn for the past six hundred years have been buried, 
each one sheathed in full armor. And there is a 
tradition that on the night before the death of a lord 
of Rosslyn the chapel seems to be enveloped in 

215 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

flames, a superstition upon which Scott founded his 
ballad of "Rosabelle.** 

"Seemed all on fire that chapel proud 

Where Rosslyn's chiefs uncoffined lie. 
Each baron for a sable shroud 
Sheathed in his iron panoply." 

The castle near at hand is as severely plain 
and rude as the chapel is ornate — a bare, gloomy 
place that tells in itself volumes of the hard, comfort- 
less life of the "good old days.** The apartments 
of the lord of the castle would be counted a sorry 
prison-house now — one that would bring forth a 
protest from the Howard Society — and what shall 
one say of the quarters for the serving-men and sol- 
diers, or of the dungeon itself, where the unfortu- 
nate captives were confined? Nothing, for our 
powers of expression are inadequate; language it- 
self is inadequate. Thank God, the order of things 
is changed! 

Edinburgh, with its wealth of historic and lit- 
erary associations, its famous castle and storied pal- 
aces, its classic architecture and its fine shops, will 
always appeal to the wayfarer, I care not how of- 
ten he may come; but it is too widely known to 
engage this chronicle of more unfamiliar Britain. 

The excellent North British Hotel, where, 
wonder of wonders in Britain, you may, if fortunate 

216 



ACROSIS THE TWEED 

enough, secure a heated bathroom en suit, might 
well tempt us to a longer stay; but we must be on, 
jand the next afternoon finds us on the road to 
Queensferry. Here our motor, with two or three 
others, is loaded on a ferryboat which carries us 
across the Firth of Forth. We pass directly under 
the bridge, and in no other way can one get a really 
adequate idea of this marvelous structure, which, 
despite all the recent achievements of bridge-build- 
ing, still holds its place as the most remarkable feat 
of engineering in its class. 

About Loch Leven and the ruin that rears its 
low, square tower from the clustered foliage of its 
tiny islet, there will always hover an atmosphere of 
romance. And why should it not be thus, since 
the authentic feats that history records have in them 
more of romance than many of the wild tales of 
the imagination } But more than this : the halo which 
the genius of Scott has thrown over the spot and 
the song and story that have been builded on the 
captivity and escape of the fair prisoner of Loch 
Leven, continue to make the placid lake a shrine 
for many pilgrims. 

We entered Kinross, the quiet village on the 
western shore of the lake, and followed the road 
to the boathouse, where an English motor party 
had just paused. Word had to be sent to the vil- 
lage for boatmen and I fell into conversation with 

217 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

the Englishman who was v/aiting like ourselves. 
He had come to Loch Leven on quite a different 
mission from ours — old castles and legends were so 
commonplace to him that he hardly seemed to un- 
derstand why anyone should trouble himself about 
them. He had come to fish and assured us that 
Loch Leven trout were surpassed in excellence only 
by those in an Irish lake where he had fished the 
week before. He was sending his car away and ex- 
pected to pass the night in pursuing the gentle art of 
Ike Walton. We were told that more people came 
to the lake to fish than to visit the castle. The fish- 
ing rights are owned by a local club and are jeal- 
ously guarded. The minimum license fee for trout, 
of seven shillings sixpence, with an additional charge 
per hour, makes the sport a somewhat expensive 
luxury. 

But our boatmen had come and we put off for 
the castle. The lake averages very shallow, and it 
was necessary to go considerably out of the direct 
route, even in the light row-boat, to avoid the shoals. 
The bottom in many places was covered with a 
rank sedge, which our boatman declared fatal to fish- 
ing. It had gotten in the lake a few years ago — 
had come from America in som.e mysterious manner 
— and nothing could be done to check its rapid 
spread. While he bewailed the ravages of this in- 
terloper — from the land of the interlopers — our boat 

218 



ACROSS THE TWEED 
grated on the pebbly shore of the island. The 
castle, rude and ruinous indeed, is quite small and 
the only part intact is the low, square tower of the 
keep. In this is Queen Mary's chamber, and one 
may look down from the window from which she 
made her escape; the water then came up to the 
wall, though it is now several yards away. One 
need not rehearse the story of the queen's imprison- 
ment at Loch Leven by the ambitious Douglas and 
her romantic escape through connivance with her 
captor's son, George Douglas, who succumbed to 
her charms as did nearly every one who came into 
her company. And who can wonder that the ac- 
tual presence of the fair queen — whose name still 
enchants us after three hundred years — should prove 
so irresistible to those who met her face to face? 
Is it strange that one whose memory can cast such 
a glamour over the cheerless old pile that has brought 
us hither, should have so strongly influenced her as- 
sociates? 

But after all, the view from the castle tower 
would be worth the journey thither. All about the 
placid water lies gleaming like a mirror beneath the 
threatening sky; here we see a flock of water-fowl, 
so tame that they scarcely heed the fishing-boats; 
there a pair of stately swans, many of which are on 
the lake; off yonder is the old town with its spire 

sharp against the horizon; and near at hand, the en- 

219 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

circling hills and the low green meadows, a delight- 
ful setting for the flashing gem of the lake — all com- 
bine to make a scene that would be inspiring even 
if the name of Mary Stuart had never been associ- 
ated with Loch Leven. As we drift away from 
the island, the words of a minor poet come to us, 
strangely sweet and appropriate: 

"No warden's fire shall e*er again 
Illume Loch Leven*s bosom fair; 
No clarion shrill of armed men 

The breeze across the lake shall bear; 

But while remains a stone of thine 

It shall be linked to royal fame — 
For here the Rose of Stuart's line 

Hath left the fragrance of her name!" 

The Loch Leven anglers have made two or 
three well-appointed hotels possible in Kinross, and 
Green's, where v/e stopped for tea, seemed ideal for 
its quiet retirement and old-fashioned comfort. 

St. Andrews, by the sea, has a combination 
of attractions, of which the famous golf links will 
occur to many people on first thought. There is 
no town in Scotland more popular as a seaside re- 
sort and the numerous hotels are crowded in season. 
But the real merits of St. Andrews are the ones 
least known to the world at large — its antiquity, the 
ruins of its once stately cathedral, its grim though 

220 



ACROSS THE TWEED 

much shattered castle, and its university, the oldest 
in Scotland — one and all, if better known, would 
bring many tourists who do not care for golf links 
and resort hotels. 

Hither we came from Kinross by the way of 
Cupar, of which we know nothing save the old 
Scotch saw of a headstrong man, "He that will to 
Cupar maun to Cupar," but why anyone should be 
so determined to go to Cupar is not clear. It is a 
mean-looking town with cobblestone pavement so 
rough that it tried every rivit in our car, and nothing 
could be drearier than the rows of gray slate-roofed 
houses standing dejectedly in the rain. 

We were early risers, according to their reck- 
oning at the Marine Hotel, and went for a walk 
over the golf links after breakfast. I was once a de- 
votee of the royal game and was able to appreciate 
why the links by the sea are counted the finest in 
the world. Stretching along a sandy beach over 
which the tide advances and recedes incessantly, the 
links have unlimited sweep over the lawnlike low- 
lands, with just enough obstacles, mostly natural, to 
make a game of highest skill possible. The lowering 
sky of the preceding day had cleared and the keen 
wind swept in over the northern sea. We would 
have been glad to linger, if possible, but there was 
much to see in the old town v/hich, in the words of 

221 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

Thomas Carlyle, "has the essence of all the antiquity 
in Scotland in good clean condition.*' 

Directly on the ocean stands the scanty but 
still imposing ruin of the cathedral, which in its 
prime was one of the most magnificent churches in 
the Kingdom. Its burnished roof once shone far out 
at sea and a wilderness of turrets and pinnacles rose 
round the central tower, long since vanished. The 
church was for some centuries the center of ecclesias- 
tical life in Scotland. Its dedication took place in 
1318, **as a trophy and memorial of Bannockburn," 
in the august presence of King Robert the Bruce. 
And yet it was only two hundred and forty years 
later that fanaticism sounded the doom of the splen- 
did church; when the Presbyterian Council gave 
orders that the "monuments of idolatry" be pulled 
down. John Knox writes in his journal that the 
work went forward "with expedition," and for many 
years the marvelous Gothic pile served the people of 
St. Andrews as a quarry. 

The original outlines of the cathedral are clear- 
ly indicated on the smoothly mown greensward and 
give an adequate idea of its vast extent. The square 
tower of St. Regulus' Chapel is the only portion in- 
tact, and this we ascend by the dark, time-worn 
stairs inside. From the top there is a fine view of 
the town, a broad sweep of glittering sea and a far- 
reaching prospect to the landward. The town lies 

222 



ACROSS THE TWEED 

immediately beneath, spread out like a map, and 
from every direction the white country roads wander 
in to join the maze of crooked streets. Only a hun- 
dred yards away, on the very verge of the sea, is 
the castle, and we go thither when we descend. 
And we are rather glad to descend, for the wind 
blows so strongly that the tower trembles despite all 
its solidity — and one cannot help thinking of the 
Campanile at Venice. 

It seems rather incongruous that the massive, 
martial-looking castle should originally have been 
the palace of the Bishop of St. Andrews, but it 
was in an age when the church and the military went 
hand in hand. It was not strange, perhaps, in Scot- 
land, where the greater part of the murderous wars 
among the people sprang out of religious disputes, 
that the home of a church dignitary should be a 
stronghold, and the traditions of St. Andrews Cas- 
tle tell more of violence and bloodshed than the an- 
nals of many a secular fortress. 

It is a strange comment on the ferocity of the 
old-time churchmen that one of the most fiendish 
relics of "man's inhumanity to man" is to be found 
in this martial bishop's palace. Like all gruesome 
things, it is the center of interest, and the rheumatic 
old custodian had learned the attraction of the hor- 
rible for average human nature, for he greeted us 
with **Ye'll be wantin' to see the bottle dungeon 

223 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

first." He led us into the dark shadows of the "sea 
tower," as John Knox designated it, and placing a 
lighted candle on a staff, dropped it into a circular 
opening four or five feet in diameter. Looking 
down, we could see a bottle-shaped cavity hewn out 
of the solid rock, and extending below the level of 
the sea. Into this the captives were lowered, and 
with no light and little air were left to a dreadful 
death, their moans drowned by the thunder of the 
waves overhead. Or perhaps a more merciful fate 
might be meted to some of them — even though it 
were death at the stake — for we knew that George 
Wishart, whom Cardinal Beaton burned before the 
castle, had first been imprisoned in the dungeon. 
One almost breathes a sigh of relief to know that 
shortly afterwards the Presbyterians stormed the for- 
tress and slew the inhuman cardinal, whose body 
was thrown into the dungeon after having been ex- 
posed from the castle walls. John Knox was one 
of the party that slew Beaton, and he wrote a gloat- 
ing account of the incident. 

But enough of these horrors, which the old 
custodian drones over in broad Scotch dialect. Let 
us go out upon the pleasant greensward of the court- 
yard, where there is little to remind us of the terri- 
ble deeds that have transpired within the gloomy 
walls. The seaward walls have nearly disappeared, 
for the stone was used in work on the harbor by a 

224 



ACROSS THE TWEED 

generation that little dreamed of the value posterity 
would set on such historic monuments. 

Following the coast road from St. Andrews to 
Kirkcaldy, we were seldom out of sight of the sea, 
and passed through several little fishertowns cen- 
turies old and quite looking their years. Largo is 
the birthplace of Alexander Selkirk, whose exper- 
iences on a desert island gave DeFoe the idea of 
"Robinson Crusoe.*' The house where he was born 
still stands and a stone figure of Crusoe is set just 
in front in a niche in the wall. In all of these coast 
towns an old-world quiet seemed to reign save in 
the "long town" of Kirkcaldy, through whose dirty 
streets, thronged with filthy children, we carefully 
picked our way. Here we turned inland, passing 
a succession of towns whose rubbish-covered streets 
were full of drunken miners — it was Saturday af- 
ternoon — who stumbled unconcernedly in front of 
the car; and not a few drunken women joined in 
the yells which often greeted us. The road was 
very bumpy and it is a far from pleasant or interesting 
route until the neighborhood of Dunfermline is 
reached. 

Dunfermline should be a household word in 
America, for here is the modest slate-roofed cot- 
tage where our great dispenser of free libraries was 
bom and which he purchased some years ago. He 
IS a sort of fairy godfather to Dunfermline and has 

225 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

showered on the town more wealth than the canny 
burghers know what to do with. We had a letter 
of introduction to one of the linen manufacturers — 
linen-making is the great industry of Dunfermline — 
and he insisted upon showing us about the town. 
He pointed out some of the benefactions of Mr. 
Carnegie, who, besides the regulation free library, 
gave a large sum toward the restoration of the abbey 
church and to establish a public park. Still more, 
he has set aside a sum of no less than half a million 
sterling, the income from which is to be spent under 
the direction of a board of trustees in promoting 
"the higher welfare, physical, intellectual and moral, 
of the inhabitants.'* So great are his benefactions 
that Dunfermline has been afforded the opportunity 
of becoming a model town in every respect, though 
the experiment is still in its infancy. 

The abbey church is one of the most interest- 
ing in Scotland and is the shrine of all patriotic Scots, 
for here is buried King Robert the Bruce, whose 
;iame is cut in huge letters in the balustrade sur- 
irounding the tower. The nave of the church has 
been restored and is now used as a place of wor- 
ship, and there remains enough of the ruined mon- 
astery to give the needed touch of the picturesque. 

On leaving the town we were somewhat at a 
loss for the road, and asked a respectable-looking 

226 



ACROSS THE TWEED 
gray-whiskered gentleman if he could direct us to 
Alloa. 

"Oh," said he, "there are twa roads to Alloa 
— do you wish the upper or the lower road?*' 

We expressed our indifference ; we only wanted 
the best. 

"Fm no saying which is the best," he said 
cautiously. 

"But which would you take yourself?" we in- 
sisted. 

"Since you must be sae particular, I'd say that 
I should tak the lower road." 

"Let it be the lower road, then," — ^but he held 
up his hand at the first click of the starting lever. 

"Since you have decided to tak the lower road, 
I might say that I live a few miles out on this, and 
seeing there's an empty seat, perhaps ye'U be will- 
ing to give me a ride." It was now clear why he 
had been so non-communicative. He did not wish 
to unduly influence us for his own advantage; but 
after it was all decided on our own motion, he felt 
free to avail himself of the opportunity to be re- 
lieved of a tiresome walk. A few miles out he 
pointed to a neat residence — his home — and our 
canny Scotsman left us. 

The next day we were in Edinburgh, after 
passing the night at Stirling. It had rained fitfully 

227 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

during our tour in Fife and a gray mantle still hung 
over **Auld Reekie," — though perhaps the name is 
less appropriate than when Scott first used it. The 
Fifeshire roads averaged bad — rough and stony and 
pften quite slippery from the rain. We were glad 
to pass the day in our comfortable rooms at the 
North British watching the rain-soaked city from 
pur windows. But it was no better on the fol- 
lowing day and we were soon on the North Berwick 
road in the same discouraging drizzle. Nothing 
could be more depressing under such conditions than 
the succession of wretched suburban towns through 
which we passed for some distance out of Edin- 
burgh. The streets, despite the rain, were full of 
dirty children and bedraggled women, and we were 
glad to come into the open road along the sea. It 
is a road that must afford magnificent views in fine 
weather, but for us it wended along a wind-swept, 
chocolate-colored ocean that was quickly lost in the 
driving rain. There are numerous seaside resorts be- 
tween Portobello and North Berwick, though the 
latter is the more popular and is supplied with pa- 
latial hotels. 

It was just beyond here that we caught sight 
of the object of our pilgrimage along the Firth — 
the old Douglas castle of Tantallon, which, mirrored 
in Scott's heroic lines, excited and dazzled our 
youthful imagination. It stands drearily on a bleak 

228 



■41 ♦•:'.■ 




ACROSS THE TWEED 

headland and was half hidden in the gray gusts of 
rain when 

"Close before us showed 
His towers, Tantallon vast." 

But its vastness has diminished since the day of 
which Scott wrote, for much of the castle has disap- 
peared and the sea wall which ran along the edge 
of the rock has crumbled away. Still, the first im- 
pression one gets of the shapeless ruin as he crosses 
the waterless moat and rings the bell for admission 
is one of majesty, despite the decay riot everywhere. 
We waited long, almost despairing of gaining en- 
trance, when the keeper appeared at the gate. He 
was not expecting visitors on such a stormy day 
and had been drowsing over old papers in his little 
booth inside. 

There is not much to remind one of the fiery 
parting between Douglas and Marmion so vividly 
described by Scott. But a mere shell of the castle 
remains; the draw-bridge of the ringing lines is gone, 
and the inner walls from which the retainers might 
have watched the fierce encounter have long since 
crumbled away. The courtyard where the doughty 
warriors engaged in their altercation is covered with 
grasses and starred with wild flowers. About all 
that remains as it was in the day of Douglas is the 
dungeon hewn from the solid rock beneath the 

229 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

walls. We wandered about the roofless, dripping 
ruins as the old keeper told us the story of the cas- 
tle and pointed out the spots that have been identi- 
fied with the song of Scott. Here stood the battle- 
ments from which the disconsolate Clare contem- 
plated the desolate ocean — here was the chapel 
where Wilton was armed by old Archibald — 

But the rain has ceased and blue rifts are com- 
ing in the sky. As we look oceanward, a mountain- 
like bulk rises dimly out of the dull waters. "Bass 
Rock," says our guide, "and a peety it is that the 
sea is too rough for the boots today." A weird isl- 
and it is, less than a mile in circumference, rising to 
the stupendous height of four hundred feet, though 
it little looks it from Tantallon — our guess was less 
than a quarter as great. In old days the rock was 
quite inaccessible; it was early fortified and in later 
times was made a prison. Here was confined a 
group of the persecuted Covenanters, who lay in 
the damp, dark dungeons, "envying the freedom of 
the birds" — the gulls and wild geese that wheel 
almost in clouds about the rock. Dreadful times 
these — ^but to appreciate the real horror of such a 
fate one would have to stand on Bass Rock when 
the storm walks abroad and the wild German Ocean 
wraps the rock in the white mist of the angry waves. 
The rock serves little purpose now save as a site for 
a lighthouse, built a few years ago, and as a resort 

230 



ACROSS THE TWEED 

for curious tourists, who can visit it when the wea- 
ther allows landing to be made. 

Turning southward through the Lammermuir 
Hills, we find at the little village of East Linton a 
surprise in the Black Lion, another of those home- 
like and wonderfully comfortable Scotch inns which 
offer genuine cheer to the wayfarer. Here a fire 
dances in the grate and our luncheon is one that 
the more pretentious hotels do not equal. We re- 
sume our flight under leaden skies through the low 
gray mists that sweep the hilltops. Haddington is 
famed for its abbey church, very old and vast in 
bulk. Jane Welsh Carlyle is buried in its choir — 
for she chose to lie beside her father in her long sleep. 

The moorland road to Melrose is finely engi- 
neered, following the hills in long sweeping lines with 
few steep grades or sharp curves. In places it is 
marked by rows of posts so that it may be followed 
when covered by the snows. Melrose Abbey, fa- 
miliar from former visits, claims only a passing 
glance, as we hasten on to its old-time rival at Jed- 
burgh, which is now somewhat off the beaten path 
and few know of the real interest of the town or the 
extent and magnificence of its abbey ruin, whose 
massive tower and high walls, pierced by three tiers 
of graceful windows, dominate any distant view of 
the place. 

We brought the car up sharply on the steep 

231 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

hillside in front of the abbey and an old woman 
in a nearby cottage called to us to "gang right in — 
ye*ll find the keeper in the gardens." And we did 
— surprised him at work with his flowers — a hale 
old man of seventy with bushy hair and beard, sil- 
ver white, and a hearty Scotch accent that wins 
you at once. He dropped his garden tools and came 
forward with a quick, elastic step, greeting us as if 
we had been expected friends. When he espied 
the lady member of our party, he began to cut roses 
until he had made up quite a bouquet, which he 
gallantly presented her. Then he began a panegyric 
on Jedburgh and the abbey, assuring us that a stay 
of several days would be necessary to get even an 
idea of the ruins and the historic spots of the vi- 
cinity. His face visibly fell when we told him we 
must be off in an hour. 

"Ah," said he, "sic haste, sic haste to get 
back to England! Ye should bide longer in old 
Scotia and learn her history and her people. I grant 
ye England is a great nation, but the Scotch is the 
greater of the two.*' 

Then his enthusiasm got the better of him, and 
forgetting the abbey he began to point out the beau- 
ties of the valley of the Jed, over which we had a 
far-reaching view, and to recite snatches of the 
poetry of Burns appropriate to the scene. I had 
thought that I knew a little of the beauty and spirit 

232 



ACROSS THE TWEED 
of Burns, but it all seemed to take on new meaning 
from the lips of the quaint old Scotsman. It was 
worth a journey to Jedburgh, and a long one, to 
hear him recite it. Then he began to point out the 
things of interest about the abbey, and so many they 
seemed to him that he had difficulty in choosing 
which he should enlarge upon during our short stay. 
He showed us the Norman doorway, the most elab- 
orate in the Kingdom, so remarkable that the Mar- 
quis of Lothian, the owner of the abbey, has caused 
an exact duplicate to be made in the wall near by 
to preserve the wonderful detail nearly obliterated 
in the original. He led us among the great pillars, 
still intact, springing up into the mighty arches of 
the nave, and pointed out the gracefulness of the 
numerous windows with slender stone muUions. 
There are many notable tombs, among them one 
with a marble effigy of the late Marquis of Lothian, 
a really superb work of art, by George Frederick 
Watts. Nor did he forget the odd gravestones in 
the churchyard with epitaphs in quaint and halting 
verse, telling of the virtues of the long-forgotten 
dead, of one of whom it was declared : 

"Here Lyes a Christian Bold and True, 
An antipode to Babel's Creu, 
A Friend to Truth, to Vice a Terrour; 
A Lamp of Zeal opposing Errour. 

233 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

Who fought the Battels of the Lamb, 
Of Victory now Bears the Palm." 

And there is another stone with a threat as 
grim as that of the Bard of Avon, for the epitaph 
expresses the wish that 

"Whoever Removes this 
Stone 
Or causes it to be 

Removed 

May he die the last of 

All his Friends." 

The stone lies flat, above the grave, and our 
guide declared, 

**I had an unco hard time to get a photo of it 
for my book, for I did na fancy moving it, to be 
sure. 

"Your book? And have you written a book?" 
He was off in a moment and with almost boyish 
enthusiasm brought forth a neat volume, "Poetry 
and Prose of Walter Laidlaw, F. S. A.," and we 
found on later perusal that it has not a little of true 
poetic fire, of which an example or two may not be 
amiss. It is not strange that one so full of patriotism 
and admiration for his native Scotland should depre- 
cate the tendency of her people to emigrate to for- 
eign lands, and he expostulates as follows: 

234 



AOROSS THE TWEED 

"What ails the folk? they Ve a' gane gyte! 
They rush across the sea. 
In hope to gather gear galore, 
'Way in some far countree. 

"But let them gang where'er they may. 
There's no' a spot on earth 
Like ancient Caledonia yet. 
The land that ga'e them birth. 

"They ha'e nae grand auld Abbeys there. 
Or battered castles hoary. 
Or heather hills, or gow'ny glens. 
That teem wi' sang and story. 

"Nae doot they've bigger rivers there. 

An' broad an' shinin' lakes; 
I wadna leave oor classic streams 

Or burnies, for their sake. 

"The lonely cot, the bracken brae. 
The bonnie milk-white thorn; 
The bent frae where the lav'rock springs 
To hail the dawn o' morn. 

"The thrashy syke, the broomy know^e. 
The gnarled auld aik tree, 
Gi'e joys that riches canna buy 
In lands ayont the sea." 

But not all of his fellow-countrymen feel so 
about it, and numbers of them all over the world are 

235 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

"gathering gear'* year after year with proverbial 
thriftiness, though they seldom lose their love for 
old Caledonia, or forget — to quote Mr. Laidlaw 
again : 

"the thatched cot with ivy clad. 
The hame o' boyhood's happy days. 

"Content were we with but-and-ben 

A divot shiel, a broom-thatched byre; 
We got our eldin frae the glen. 
In winter kept a roosin' fire. 

"There my kind mother sang sae cheery 
While she was spinnin' on the wheel; 
The winter nights we ne'er did weary. 
We liked her sangs and cracks sae weel. 

"When faither us'd oor shoon to mend, 
Auld Border tales he wad relate; 
Or read ben in the other end 

The grave *Night Thoughts' or 'Fourfold 
State.' " 

Besides the poems, the book contains several 
addresses and essays which show the bent of Mr. 
Laidlaw's mind, among them, "Robert Bums," "Dr. 
John Ley den," and "The Songs of Scotland." 

Besides his literary achievements, we learned 
that Mr. Laidlaw is a Fellow of the Scotch Anti- 
quarian Society and a recognized authority on the 
antiquities of Jedburgh and vicinity. We left him 

236 



ACROSS THE TWEED 

with regret, and hope that some day our wander- 
ings may enable us to renew his acquaintance. 

We followed the Teviot road to Kelso, a few 
miles away, where the substantial and comfortable 
appearance of the Cross Keys induced us to stop 
for the night — after an investigation by which we 
assured ourselves that conditions within accorded 
with outward appearances, a practice to which we 
had become more and more partial. 

Kelso is situated at the junction of the Teviot 
and the Tweed, and is surrounded by an exceeding- 
ly picturesque country. A fine view is afforded 
from the stone-arched bridge over the Tweed — 
westward the Eildon Hills, beloved of Scott, are 
visible in the blue distance, and, nearer at hand, 
the moorish facade of Floors Castle, against a mass 
of somber woods. The river is greatly broadened 
here and the meeting of its waters with the Teviot 
is celebrated in song and story. Of Kelso Abbev 
little remains save the shattered central tower and a 
few straggling walls. It was one of the smaller ec- 
clesiastical establishments of Scotland founded by 
David I. in 1130 and was burned by the English 
during the invasion of 1545. 

Closely following the beautiful Tweed road, 
which for the greater part of the distance to Cold- 
stream keeps in full view of the river, we re-cross 
the border quite early on the following morning. 

237 



XIV 

MORE YORKSHIRE WANDERINGS 

Flodden Field lies adjacent to the road which 
we pursued southward from the Tweed, but there 
is little now to indicate the location of the historic 
battlefield. Song and story have done much to im- 
mortalize a conflict whose results were not especially 
important or far-reaching — the world knows of it 
chiefly through the vivid lines of "Marmion." It 
is not worth while to follow our hasty flight to the 
south; we are again bound for the Yorkshire moors 
and the distance we must cover ere night will not 
admit of loitering. 

At Chillingham Castle we see the herd of na- 
tive vsild cattle made feunous by Landseer's picture. 
The keeper led us into the park within a hundred 
yards of a group of animals, which have become 
so tame that they took no notice of our presence. The 
cattle are white, with long curving horns and black 
muzzles, and the purity of the stock is carefully 
maintained. The herd is believed to be a direct des- 
cendant of the wild ox of Europe, the progenitor 
of our domestic cattle, and its preservation is quite 
analogous to the few remaining buffaloes in Amer- 

238 



MORE YORKSHIRE WANDERINGS 

ica. The animals retain many peculiarities of their 
wild state; one of the most remarkable of these is 
the habit which the young calves have of dropping 
suddenly to the ground when surprised. The bulls 
are often dangerous and it is related that King Ed- 
ward, when Prince of Wales, killed one of the ani- 
mals, arresting with a well-aimed shot its savage 
charge toward him. Evidently the present prince 
did not care to repeat his father's experience, for he 
had been at Chillingham a few days before and 
declined the opportunity offered him by the Earl 
of Tankerville of slaying the king of the herd. 

"*E said *e *adn*t time," explmned the keeper 
with an air of disgust that showed he looked on 
the prince's excuse as a mere subterfuge. 

On a former occasion we had failed to gain 
admittance to Alnwick Castle, owing to a visit of 
the king the previous day. We were more suc- 
cessful this time and were conducted through the 
portions usually shown to visitors, chiefly the re- 
maining parts of the old fortress — the "castle good" 
that in early days "threatened Scotland's wastes." 
The home of the warlike Percys for many gener- 
ations, few castles in England have figured more 
in ballad and story and few have been the center of 
more stirring scenes. But the old castle is almost lost 
in the palace of today, upon which the late Duke 

of Northumberland is said to have expended the 

239 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

enormous sum of three hundred and sixty thousand 
pounds sterling. The walls at present enclose an 
area of five acres and it would be hard to imagine 
more pleasing vistas of forest and meadowland than 
those which greet one from the battlements. The 
great park is worthy of the castle, and taken al- 
together there is perhaps no finer feudal estate in 
England. 

From Alnwick to Newcastle and from New- 
castle to Darlington the road is familiar; only an oc- 
casional tovm or village interferes with our flight to 
the southward. Newcastle, with its bad approaches 
and crowded, slippery streets, causes the greatest 
loss of time, but we make it up on the broad, level 
stretch of the Great North Road to Darlington. At 
Richmond we leave the lowlands and strike directly 
across the rough moorland road to Leyburn in 
Wensleydale. 

Here in the remote Yorkshire hills is one of 
the most romantic bits of England and within a com- 
paratively small space is much of historic interest. 
Shall we go to Bolton Castle, which we see off 
yonder, grim and almost forbidding in the falling 
twilight? Its jagged towers and broken battlements 
are outlined darkly against the distant hills; indeed, 
in the dim light it seems almost a part of the hills 
themselves. We follow the rough narrow road that 
dwindles almost to a footpath as it approaches the 

240 



(MORE YORKSHIRE WANDERINOS 

village. Our car splashes through a rapid, unbridged 
little river, climbs the steep bank, creeps through 
tangled thickets, until it emerges into the main street 
of Castle Bolton, if a wide grass-grown road with a 
few lichen-covered cottages on either side may be 
dignified with the name. At the end of the street, 
towering over the slate-roofed hovels about it, is the 
castle, its walls in fairly good repair and three of its 
four original towers still standing. The fourth crum- 
bled and collapsed from the battering Cromwell 
gave it — for even this remote fortress in the moors 
did not escape the vengeance of the Protector. 

Bolton Castle, nevertheless, is better preserved 
than the majority of those which have been aban- 
doned to ruin; the great entrance hall, some of the 
stairways, the room of state and many chambers 
are still intact. One may climb the winding stairs 
and from the towers look down upon the mass of 
ruined grandeur — sagging and broken roofs, vacant 
doorways and windows and towers whose floors 
have fallen away — the melancholy work of time and 
weather, for these have chiefly affected the castle 
since it was dismantled by its captors. One is re- 
lieved to turn from such a scene to the narrow green 
valley through which the river runs and out 
beyond it to the wide prospect of brown hills with 
gray villages and solitary cottages. 

The history of Bolton Castle is long and varied 

241 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

— too long to tell in detail. It was built in the 
twelfth century by Richard, the first Lord Scrope, 
founder of the family, which figured so largely in 
the fierce struggles of the northern border. From 
that time to the death of the last representative of 
the family in 1630, Bolton Castle was almost con- 
tinually the center of stirring scenes. The Arch- 
bishop of York in 1405 was a Scrope, and he 
preached a fiery sermon denouncing the reigning 
King Henry as an usurper. The bold churchman 
lost his head for his temerity, but his execution sowed 
the seed of the long and terrible wars of the Roses. 
Nor will the reader of "Marmion" forget Scott's 
reference to "Lord Scrope of Bolton, stem and 
stout,*' who with "all Wensleydale did wend" to 
join the English at Flodden Field. The closing 
scene came like the closing scene of many an English 
Ceistle, when Col. Scrope, the last owner, was com- 
pelled to surrender to the forces of Parliament and 
the castle was dismantled. Since then it has stood 
stern and lonely in the Yorkshire hills, and nearly 
three centuries of decay have added to the ruin 
wrought by the captors. 

But there is a roselight of romance that en- 
wraps the shattered towers of Bolton, for does not 
the moorland ruin call up a thousand memories of 
Mary Stuart, yet in the flower of her youth, ere long 
years of imprisonment had stolen the color from her 

242 



MORE YORKSHIRE WANDERINaS 

face and touched it with the shade of melancholy 
that seldom left it? Here was her first prison; she 
came as an unwilling guest after her ill-advised visit 
to Carlisle in 1 568, and remained a charge of Lord 
Scrope for nearly two years. The room she occu- 
pied is large and gloomy, with but one small window 
looking westward over the hills — the same window, 
legend declares, by which she escaped from the 
castle, only to be shortly recaptured by Lord Scrope's 
retainers. Her captivity at Bolton, while less rigor- 
ous than in later years, was none the less a captivity, 
and while she was allowed to go hawking, she was 
always under close surveillance. Very likely she 
did try to escape, for in such an escapade the un- 
happy queen never lacked for accomplices, even 
among her gaolers. But fate was ever unkind to 
Mary Stuart, and though many times her fortune 
seemed evenly balanced, some lack of judgment on 
part of herself or her followers thwarted the plans for 
regaining her liberty. They tell that in leaving Bol- 
ton in this attempt, her friends followed the river 
road to Leyburn when a dash over the moors to the 
north might have insured success. It all seems very 
real to one who stands in the gloomy apartment at 
twilight and looks from the window down the steep 
narrow road leading to the valley — no doubt the 
one Mary followed in her effort to get out of her 

243 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

arch-enemy's clutches, which ended in such heart- 
breaking failure. 

But it is waxing late and we will descend the 
same hill and follow the same road to Leybum. 
Leyburn is gray and bleak in the falling night, with 
a wide bare market place paved with rough cob- 
blestones, shorn, alas, a few decades ago, of its fine 
old market cross and town hall — in a spirit of "im- 
provement!** TTie prospect for good cheer is far 
from flattering, but we must stop in Leyburn per- 
force. The Bolton Arms seems to promise the best, 
but it is full and the Golden Lion offers the only 
alternative. It is a typical second-class village inn, 
not overly clean. It appears more of an alehouse 
than hotel, for a crowd of villagers and farmers is 
tippling at the bar. 

Directly across the river from Leybum is Mid- 
dleham, the old-time capital of Wensleydale and one 
of the quaintest and least modernized towns it was 
our good fortune to see. The drab-colored build- 
ings straggle up the hill upon whose crest sits Mid- 
dleham Castle, grim, vast and wholly ruinous. And 
after wandering through the maze of shattered walls 
and tottering towers, it seemed to us that here was 
the very ideal of ruined castles. We had seen 
many of them, but none more awe-inspiring, none 
more suggestive of the power of the cataclysm which 
left such fortresses, seemingly impregnable as the 

244 



OMORE YORKSHIRE WANDERINGS 

hills themselves, in shapeless wreck and ruin. Here 
and there the ivy and wall flower mantled the naked- 
ness of the mouldering stone, and a stout sapling of 
several years' growth had fastened its roots in the 
deep mould high on one of the towers. Truly, 
Cromwell did his work well at Middleham. Such 
a stronghold could be dealt with only by gunpowder 
mines, which were responsible for the cracked and 
sundered walls and the shapeless masses of stone and 
mortar which have never been cleared away. 

There are memories connected with Middle- 
ham Castle as grim as the ruin itself ; for with them is 
intertwined the name of Richard of Gloucester, the 
hunchback whose crimes, wrought into the imperish- 
able lines of Shakespeare, have horrified the world. 
When he came here the castle was owned by the 
Nevilles, and here he married Anne, the daughter 
of the house, and thus became possessed of the estate. 
Here his only son, for whom he committed his un- 
speakable crimes, was born and here his ambitions 
were blasted by the boy's early death. 

But it is no task of mine to tell the story of 
Richard III. — only to recall his associations with 
Middleham. And we noted on one of the two an- 
cient town crosses the rudely carved figure of a boar, 
the emblem of this ruthless king. Altogether, Mid- 
dleham is very unique — old-world describes it better 
than any other term, perhaps. There is scarcely a 

245 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

jarring note of any kind; the only thing approaching 
mediocrity and seemingly much out of place, is the 
Victoria Jubilee Fountain. And the customs of 
the town still have a savor of medievalism — bulls 
were baited within the memory of living men. 

The thought that first occurs, when one learns 
that Jervaulx Priory is not far from Middleham, is 
of Prior Aylmer and "Ivanhoe" — showing how the 
creations of the Wizard of the North often take pre- 
cedence in one*s mind over actual history — nay, 
rather have supplanted historical knowledge alto- 
gether, for we know nothing of the history of Jer- 
vaulx and wall not take the pains to learn. It is 
enough to wander through its grounds, now kept 
with all possible care and neatness — every moss- 
growTi stone replaced as nearly as possible in its 
original position and every detail of the abbey 
marked with exactness on the sward — and to know 
that the old story of monastic poverty, pomp and 
downfall has been repeated here. It is near the 
roadside and though private property, one may easily 
gain access by application at the keeper's cottage. 
The ruins are scanty indeed — little more than mere 
outlines of the abbey church and monastery and a 
few isolated columns and fragments of wall is to be 
seen — but the landscape gardener has come to the 
rescue and out of the scattered fragments has wrought 
an harmonious and pleasing effect. The situation 

246 



MORE YORKSHIRE WANDERINGS 

is one of surpassing loveliness, just at the foot of the 
hills on the river Ure, which rushes between almost 
precipitous banks, over which its tributaries fall in 
glittering cascades. The soft summer air is murmur- 
ous with their music and the song of birds. There 
is no one but ourselves on the ground; no guide is 
with us to drone over prosaic history and to point 
out nave and transept — and this and that. As we 
wander almost dreamily about, we come very near 
to the spirit of monastic days. It is easy to imagine 
the old-time state of the abbey under Prior Aylmer, 
"when the good fathers of Jervaulx drank sweet 
wines and lived on the fat of the land." Even in 
that halcyon time it is doubtful if the surroundings 
were half so lovely as today. 

But we have mused long enough at Jervaulx — 
"Jervo," as the railway company officially declares 
it; "Jarvey," as the natives perversely term it. The 
day is still young and an uninterrupted run over the 
winding moorland road brings us to Ripon before 
noon. The low square-topped towers of the cathe- 
dral break on our view as we descend the hill to the 
Ure, upon whose banks Ripon sits. 

Ripon Cathedral is well-nigh forgotten by pil- 
grims who would see the great Yorkshire churches — 
so far is it surpassed by York Minster and Beverley. 
But after all, it is an imposing church and of great 
antiquity, for a monastery was established on the 

247 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

present site in the seventh century and St. Wilfred, 
the famous Archbishop of York, built the minster. 
Of this ancient building the crypt still remains, and 
to see it we followed the verger down a steep, narrow 
flight of stairs into a series of dungeonlike apart- 
ments beneath the forward end of the nave. 

Perhaps the most curious relic is St. Wilfred's 
Needle, a small window in the thick wall of the 
crypt, and various merits have been attributed to 
anyone who could pass through it. In old days this 
was proof of innocence against any charge of crime; 
but just now the young womam who can perform the 
somewhat acrobatic feat will be married within a 
year — rather a discrimination against the more 
buxom maidens. 

About four hundred years after the founding 
of the Saxon monastery, the present church was 
built; but it was not until 1836 that it was elevated 
to the rank of a cathedral. Like York Minster, 
Ripon is singularly devoid of tombs of famous men, 
though there are many fine monuments and brasses 
to the noble families of the vicinity. The architec- 
ture is strangely mixed, owing to the many alter- 
ations that have been made from time to time. The 
exterior must have been far more imposing before 
the removal of the wooden spires which rose above 
the towers. Ripon is a quiet, old-world market 
town, progressive in its way, but having little re- 

248 



MORE YORKSHIRE WANDERINGS 

source other than the rich agricultural country around 
it. There are many quaint streets and odd corners 
that attract the lover of such things. A queer relic 
of the olden days that arouses the curiosity of the 
visitor is the blowing of a horn at nine in the even- 
ing before the town cross by the constable. The 
sojourner will not be at a loss for comfortable en- 
tertainment, since the Unicorn Hotel fulfills the best 
traditions of English inns. 

To come within hailing distance of York 
means that we cannot remain away from that charm- 
ing old city; and the early afternoon finds us passing 
Bootham Bar. The rest of the day we give to a 
detailed study of the minster — our fourth visit, nor 
are we weary of York Minster yet. 

Pontefract — the Pomfret of olden time — lies 
about twenty miles southwest of York. Its very 
name takes us back to Roman times — Pontem 
Fractem, the place of the broken bridge. It is a 
town that figured much in early English history and 
its grim old castle may hold the mystery of the 
death of King Richard II. We came here under 
lowering skies, and passing the partly ruined church, 
climbed the steep hill where the castle — or rather 
the scanty remnant of it — still stands. Verily, "ruin 
greenly dwells" about the old fortress of Ponte- 
fract; the walls were laden heavily with ivy, the 
greensward covered the floor of the keep, and the 

249 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

courtyard has been converted into a public garden. 
There is so little left that it would require a vivid 
imagination to reconstruct the strong and lordly 
fortress, which endured no fewer than three sieges 
during the civil war. The first resulted disastrously 
to the Parliamentary forces and the second was 
successful only after a long period and very heavy 
losses, and even then the garrison was given the 
honors of the war; yet after all this strenuous work, 
the castle was again lost to the Royalists through a 
trifling bit of strategy. 

The commander became so negligent through 
a false sense of security that a handful of adven- 
turers gained admission to the castle, and driving out 
the few soldiers who happened to be inside — ^most 
of the garrison was quartered in the town — pos- 
sessed themselves of the fortress. A third siege was 
thus made necessary and such was the strength of 
the castle that nearly a year elapsed before it finally 
fell — holding out for some time after Charles was 
beheaded. Even then, favorable terms were again 
jgranted to the defenders, though Col. Morris, who 
devised the successful capture, and five others, were 
specifically excepted from the amnesty. Much to 
the disgust of the captors, Morris escaped for the 
time, though a little later he was taken and hanged 
at York. Thus ended the active history of Ponte- 
fract Castle, but it was considered dangerous to the 

250 



MORE YORKSHIRE WANDERINGS 

Commonwealth and was almost completely razed, 
the walls being mined with gunpowder. 

Pontefract was undoubtedly the prison to 
which the Duke of Lancaster consigned King 
Richard II., 

"That disastrous king on whom 
Fate, like a tempest, early fell, 
And the dark secret of whose doom 
The keep of Pomfret kept full well.'* 

And yet it is not certain that Richard perished while 
a prisoner in the castle. A tradition exists that he 
escaped and lived many years an humble peasant. 
Pontefact was a very storm center in the wars of 
the Roses, for almost within sight of its towers was 
fought the battle of Towton Moor, the bloodiest 
conflict that ever took place on English soil. 

But it would take a volume to record the 
vicissitudes that have befallen the mouldering ruin 
at our feet. The rain is falling more heavily; let us 
on to Wakefield, whose spire we might easily see 
were it not for the gray veil which hides the land- 
scape. For Wakefield spire is the loftiest in York- 
shire — a slender, pointed shaft rising to a height of 
two hundred and forty-seven feet over a much al- 
tered church that was elevated to the rank of cathe- 
dral in 1888. As it now stands, the interior is 
chiefly Perpendicular, though there are many touches 

251 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

of the Decorated and Early English styles. It is 
characterized by grace and lightness, giving an al- 
together pleasing effect. The windows exhibit as 
fine modern glass as we saw in the Kingdom, and 
go far to prove that the disrepute into which mod- 
em glass has fallen is largely due to lack of artistic 
taste and a desire for cheapness. Such windows as 
those at Wakefield are far from a reproach on the 
art of the stained-glass maker. So much has the 
church been restored and added to that it gives as 
a whole an impression of newness that seems strange 
in an English cathedral — for there has been no ca- 
thedral built in England since St. Paul's, more than 
two hundred years ago. 

When we come to Barnsley, a few miles to the 
south, the rain, which has gradually increased, is 
falling in torrents, and we resolve to take respite 
from the cold and damp for our belated luncheon. 
We seek out the King's Head, for an English friend 
has told us that twenty-five years ago this hotel was 
famous for the best mutton chop in England. Tra- 
ditions never die in Britain, and we doubt not the 
King's Head still retains its proud distinction. It 
does not, however, present an especially attractive 
appearance; it is rather dingy and time-worn, but 
any place might seem a little dreary on such a day. 
Yes, the King's Head still serves the Barnsley chop, 
and we will have it, though we must wait a half 

252 



MORE YORKSHIRE WANDERINGS 
hour for it. And the recollection of the luncheon 
comes like a gleam of sunshine into a dark, rainy day, 
and effaces all memory of the first unfavorable im- 
pression of the King's Head. 

A Barnsley chop defies all description; its 
mighty dimensions might be given, its juicy tender- 
ness might be descanted upon; all the language at 
the epicure's command might be called into action, 
and yet, after all, only he vs^ho has actually eaten a 
Barnsley chop would have an adequate idea of its 
savory excellence. O, yes! They imitate it at other 
hotels, both in and out of Barnsley, so said the man- 
ageress, but after all, the King's Head alone can 
prepare the original and only Barnsley chop ; it alone 
has devised the peculiar process whereby the truly 
wonderful result is obtained. Verily, after eating 
it we sallied forth into the driving rain feeling some- 
thing of the spirit of the ancient Roman who de- 
clared, "Fate cannot harm me — I have dined to- 
day." 

Three or four miles out of Barnsley on a byway 

off the Doncaster road is the village of Darfield, 

whose church illustrates the interest one may so often 

find in out-of-the-way spots in England. Thither 

we drove through the heavy rain, and as we stopped 

in front of the church at the end of the village street, 

a few of the natives who happened to be abroad 

paused under dripping umbrellas to stare at us. I 

253 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

do not wonder at their astonishment, for from their 
point of view persons motoring in search of old 
churches on such a day might well have their sanity 
questioned. 

The ceiling is painted blue, with stars and 
feathery clouds — clearly a representation of the 
heavens — and it seemed an age since we had seen 
them, too. There are many elaborate carvings; the 
massive Jacobean cover over the baptismal font, the 
fine black-oak bench-ends of the seventeenth century, 
and a splendid coffer in the vestry, are all treasures 
worthy of notice. A Bible with heavy wooden 
covers is chained to a solid oaken stand — suggestive 
of the days when a man's piety might lead him to 
steal the rare copies of the Scripture. A beautifully 
v^ought though scarred and dilapidated alabaster 
tomb has recumbent figures of a knight and his lady 
in costumes of the time of Richard II., and another 
tomb bears some very quaint devices, among them 
an owl with a crown upon its head. 

It is our third visit to Doncaster, and the giant 
church tower has become a familiar object. Its very 
stateliness is exaggerated by the dead level of the 
town and today it rises dim and vast against the 
leaden, rain-swept sky, but though it is easily the 
most conspicuous object in the town, the fine old 
church does not constitute Doncaster's chief claim 
to fame. Here is the horse-racing center of York- 

254 



MORE YORKSHIRE WANDERINaS 

shire, and on its "Leger Day" it is probably the 
liveliest town in England. The car shops of the 
Great Northern Railway keep it quietly busy for 
the rest of the year. But as the racing center of a 
horse-loving shire, it would be strange if it had not 
acquired during the ages a reputation for convivi- 
ality. That it had such a reputation a century or 
more ago is evidenced by the example of its mayor, 
set forth by a ballad-maker of the period: 

"The Doncaster mayor he sits in his chair. 
His mills they merrily go; 
His nose doth shine with drinking wine. 
And the gout is in his great toe." 

We pass on to the southward and pause in the 
main street of the quiet village of Scrooby, just on 
the Yorkshire border, where good authorities insist 
the idea of American colonization was first con- 
ceived. Here Elder Brewster, one of the chief 
founders of the Plymouth Colony, was born in 1 567, 
and here he passed his boyhood days. The manor- 
house where he lived and where he met Rev. John 
Robinson and William Bradford is no longer stand- 
ing; but it is not unreasonable to suppose that the 
plan of leaving England for the new world may 
have been consummated here by these earnest men, 
who held themselves persecuted for righteousness' 

255 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

sake. After varied fortunes they sailed on the May- 
flower in 1 620. 

We are now leaving old Yorkshire with its 
waste moorlands, its wide, fertile valleys, its narrow, 
picturesque dales, its quaint old towns and modern 
cities, its castles and abbeys, and, more than all, its 
associations of the past which reach out even to the 
shores of our native land, and we leave it with the 
keenest regret. It has fallen to us as it has to few 
to traverse the highways and byways of every sec- 
tion of the great county, and I can but be sensible as 
to how feebly my pages reflect the things that 
charmed us. If an American and a stranger is so 
impressed, how must the native Englishman feel 
when wandering among these memorials of the 
past? I cannot close my chapter more fitly than to 
quote the words of one who in poetic phrase has 
written much of Yorkshire and its history: 

"But any man will spend a month in wandering 
round Yorkshire, with ears awake to all the great 
voices of the past, and eyes open to the beauty which 
is so peculiarly English, he will find the patriotic 
passion roused again, real and living; and thence- 
forth the rivers and the glaciers of other lands will 
be to him no more than the parks and palaces of 
other men compared with the white gateway and 
the low veranda which speaks to him of home." 



256 



XV 

ROUND ABOUT WILTSHIRE 

Our run from Nottingham to Oxford was un- 
eventful, for we roved rather at random for the day 
through the delightful Midland country. At Not- 
tingham one will find the Victoria is quite up to the 
standard of station-hotel excellence in England 
and the rates refreshingly low. The city itself will 
not detain one long, for the great wave of modern 
progress that has inundated it has swept away most 
of its ancient landmarks. The old castle, once the 
key to the Northlands, has been superseded by a 
palatial structure which now serves as museum and 
art gallery. Unless one would see factories, machine 
shops and lace-making works, there will be little to 
keep him in Nottingham. 

We follow the well-surfaced road to the south- 
east, and though steep in places, its hills afford splen- 
did views ,of the landscape. The rain interferes 
much with the prospect, but in the lulls we catch 
glimpses of long reaches of meadowland dotted with 
solitary trees, rich with the emerald greenness that 
follows summer rain in England. 

Melton Mowbray has a proud distinction, for 

257 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

does not the infallible Baedeker accord it the honor 
of being the "hunting capital of the Midlands?" 
And the assertion that it is famous for its pork pies 
very appropriately follows, a matter of cause and 
effect, perhaps, for the horde of hungry huntsmen 
who congregate in the town would hardly be satis- 
fied with anything less substantial than an English 
pork pie. Melton Mowbray has a competitor in 
Market Harborough, some twenty miles farther, 
where we stopped for luncheon at a pleasant way- 
side inn. Each of these towns has a population of 
about seven thousand, chiefly dependent upon the 
hunting industry — if I may use such a term — and 
certain it is that fox hunting is about the only voca- 
tion toward which many of the Midland squires are 
at all industriously inclined. One is simply astounded 
at the hold the sport has in England and the amount 
of time and money devoted to it; a leading authority 
estimates that not less than nine million pounds is 
spent yearly by the hunters. In a summer tour one 
sees comparatively little of it, but in the autumn and 
winter these towns doubtless exhibit great activity, 
and their streets, crowded with red-coated huntsmen 
and packs of yelping dogs, must be decidedly pic- 
turesque. 

From Market Harborough a straight, narrow 
road carried us swiftly southward toward Northamp- 
ton and we passed through the Bringtons, of whose 

258 



ROUND ABOUT WILTSHIRE 

memories of the Washingtons I have written in an 
earlier chapter. The rain, which had been falling 
fitfully during the day, ceased and the sun came out 
with a brilliancy that completely transformed the 
landscape. All about us was the dense green of the 
trees and meadowlands, bejeweled with sparkling 
raindrops and dashed with the gold of the ripening 
grain, stretching away until lost in the purple mist 
of the distance. Even the roadside pools glowed 
crimson and gold, and altogether the scene was one 
of transcendent beauty and freshness. It was exhil- 
arating indeed as our open car swept over the fine 
Oxford road, passing through the ancient towns of 
Towcester, Buckingham and Bicester. There is no 
more beautiful or fertile country in the Island than 
that around Oxford, and it was a welcome change 
to see it basking in the sunshine after our dull days 
on the Yorkshire moors. 

One never wearies of Oxford, and the Randolph 
Hotel is worth a run of many miles to reach at night- 
fall. Aristocratic, spacious and quiet, with an in- 
definable atmosphere of the great universities about 
it, it appeals to both the bodily and aesthetic senses 
of the wayfarer — but Oxford, with all its interest 
and charm, has no place in this chronicle, and we 
leave it, however loath, in the early morning. We 
hasten over the Berkshire Hills through Abingdon 

259 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENaLAND 
into Wiltshire, where there is much to engage our 
attention. 

Swindon, the first town we encounter after 
passing the border, is an up-to-date city of fifty 
thousand people and the newness everywhere ap- 
parent, the asphalt pavement and the numerous tram 
lines impress one with its similarity to live Ameri- 
can towns. We learn that it is practically a creation 
of the Great Western Railway, whose shops give 
employment to a large proportion of the population. 
Clearly, there is nothing for us in Swindon and we 
hasten on to Chippenham, which has the traditions 
^hich Swindon so wofully lacks. It is a staid old 
jtown of six thousand and was important in Saxon 
times, having frequent mention in the chronicles of 
Alfred's wars with the Danes. Strange indeed the 
mutations of time — strange it seems that the now 
decadent and negligible Denmark once sent her "fair- 
haired despots of the sea" into this remote section of 
the present mistress of the seas. The town is full of 
odd old houses and it is the center of one of the 
;nost interesting spots in England, as I hope to be 
able to show. But its hotel would hardly invite a 
long sojourn; we stop for luncheon at the Angel, 
and are placed at a large table with several rather 
red-faced gentlemen who discuss horses and hunting 
dogs as vigorously as a lively onslaught on the host's 
vintage and good cheer permits. 

260 



ROUND ABOUT WILTSHIRE 

Lacock is only four miles away and they tell 
us that we should see the abbey; but they do not 
tell us that the village itself is worth a day's journey 
and that the abbey is only secondary. They do not 
tell us this, because no one about Lacock knows it. 
The utter unconsciousness and genuineness of the 
yillage is not its least charm. Lacock never dreams 
of being a show place or tourist resort ; but despite its 
unconsciousness, anyone who has seen England as 
we have seen it will know that Lacock is not easily 
matched for its wealth of old stone and timber houses 
^nd its quaint, genuine antiquity. It is perhaps a 
triHe severe and its picturesqueness is of a melancholy 
and somber kind — thatched roofs are few, ivy-clad 
walls and flower gardens are wanting; there is little 
color save an occasional red roof to relieve the all- 
pervading gray monotone. Its timbered houses are 
not the imitations one sees so often, even in England, 
or the modernized old buildings shining in black and 
white paint, but the genuine article, with weathered 
oak timbers and lichen-covered brick. There are 
many projecting upper stories and sharp gables with 
pasement windows of diamond panes set in rusty 
iron frames. The Lacock of today is truly a voice 
from the past. It must have been practically the same 
two or three hundred years ago. Its houses, its 
streets, its church and its very atmosphere carry one 

back to the England of Shakespeare. 

261 



IN UNFAMIIJEAR ENGLAND 

Such a village seems a fitting introduction to 
the abbey at whose gates it sits; and the abbey it- 
self, gray and ancient like the village, is one of the 
most perfect monastic buildings in England. No- 
vv^here else did vs^e see vv^hat seemed to us a more ap- 
propriate home for romance than this great rambling 
pile of towered and gabled buildings, with a hun- 
dred odd nooks and corners, each of which might 
well have a story of its own. It is opened freely to 
visitors by its owner, Mr. Talbot, himself an anti- 
quarian of note, who is glad to share his unbounded 
delight in the old place wdth anyone who may care 
to come. We were shown in detail the parts of the 
abbey that have a special historic and architectural 
interest. It is guarded carefully and the atmosphere 
of antiquity jealously preserved. Even the stone 
steps of the main entrance are grass-grown and moss- 
covered — "and he wont let us clean them up," said 
our guide. 

Inside there are many fine apartments and no- 
table relics. The arched cloisters, the chapter house, 
the refectory and other haunts of the nuns, are in 
quite the original state. The immense stone fish- 
tank from a solid block sixteen feet long and the 
great bronze cauldron show that good cheer was 
quite as acceptable to the nuns as to their brethren. 
But the exterior of the abbey and the beautiful 
grounds surrounding it impressed us most. All 

262 



ROUND ABOUT WILTSHIRE 

about were splendid trees and plots of shrubbery, 
and the Bristol Avon flows through the park. We 
heard what we thought the rush of its waters, but 
pur guide told us that it was the quaking aspens 
which fringe the river banks, keeping up their age- 
long sigh that their species had supplied the wood 
for the cross. No day is so still that you do not 
hear them in summer time. We passed around the 
building to note from different viewpoints its quaint 
outlines and its great rambling facades with crowded, 
queerly assorted gables, battlemented towers and 
turrets, and mysterious corners, all combining to 
make it the very ideal of the abbey of romance. 
How easy, when contemplating it in the dim twilight 
or by the light of a full moon, for the imagination to 
re-people it with its old-time habitants; and surely, 
if the ghosts of the gray nuns ever return to their 
earthly haunts, Lacock Abbey must have such visi- 
tants. 

But enough of these vagaries — one might yield 
himself up to them for days in such surroundings. I 
will not mar them with sober history, in any event, 
though Lacock has quite enough of that. The guide- 
book which you may get at the abbey lodge for two- 
pence tells its story and I have tried to tell only what 
we saw and felt. 

At the postcard shop, where we buy a few 
pictures and souvenirs of Lacock, the young woman 

263 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

tells US of Other Wiltshire nooks that we should 
see. Do we know of Sloperton Cottage, of Brom- 
ham Church, of Corsham, of Yatton Keynell and 
Castle Combe? These are only a few, in fact, but 
they are the ones that strike our fancy most and we 
thank our informant, who follows us to point out the 
roads. And never had we more need of such as- 
sistance, for our search for Sloperton Cottage involves 
us in a maze of unmarked byways that wind be- 
tween tall hedges and overarching trees. 

And what of Sloperton Cottage? Are you, 
dear reader, so ignorant as we were, not to know 
that Tom Moore, the darling poet of Erin, lived in 
Sloperton Cottage with his beloved Bessie for a 
third of a century and that both are buried at Brom- 
ham Church near at hand? One had surely thought 
to find his grave in the "ould sod'* rather than in the 
very heart of rural England; but so it is; and 
after much inquiry we enter the lonely l^ne that 
leads to Sloperton Cottage and pause before the 
long low building, heavily mantled with ivy and 
roses, though almost hidden from the road by the 
tall hedge in front. We had been told that it is the 
private home of two ladies, sisters of the owner, 
and we have no thought of intruding in such a case — 
but a neat maid appears at the gateway as we look, 
no doubt rather longingly, at the house. 

264 



ROUND ABOUT WILTSHIRE 

"Miss /' said she, "would be pleased 

to have you come in and see the cottage.'* 

Here is unexpected good fortune, and coming 
voluntarily to us, we feel free to accept the invitation. 
We see the cottage and gardens, which are much 
the same as when occupied by the poet, though 
some of the furniture has been replaced. The 
garden to the rear, sweet with old-fashioned flowers, 
we are told was a favorite resort of the author of 
"Lalla Rookh" and that he composed much of his 
verse here, lying on his back and gazing at the sky 
through over-arching branches. The cottage is 
quite unpretentious and the whole place is so cozy 
and secluded as to be an ideal retreat for the muses, 
and as an English writer has observed : 

"It would be an unfeeling person who could 
stand today before this leafy cottage, so snugl> 
tucked away by a shady Wiltshire lane, without 
some stirring of the pulse, if only for the sake of the 
melodies. If they are not great, they are the most 
felicitous and feeling English verse, taken as a whole, 
ever set to music, and are certainly world-famous 
and probably immortal. No one would wish to 
submit "Dear Harp of My Country'' or "Oft in the 
Stilly Night" to the cold light of poetic criticism. 
But when the conscientious expert has finished with 
"Lalla Rookh'* and the "Loves of the Angels" and 
consigned them to oblivion, he goes into another 

265 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

chamber, so to speak, and relaxes into unrestrained 
praise of the melodies." 

Moore must have written much of the "melo- 
dies" at Sloperton Cottage, but before he came here 
his fame had been made by his oriental poems, 
whose music and glitter caused them to be greatly 
over-estimated at the time. As we take our leave 
and thank the ladies for the courtesy, we are told 
that the cottage is to let and that we may so inform 
any of our friends. We do so herewith and can 
add our unqualified personal indorsement of Sloper- 
ton Cottage. 

Bromham Church, one of the most graceful of 
the country churches we have seen, is near at hand. 
It stands against a background of fine trees with a 
hedge-surmounted stone wall in front. It is mainly 
in the Perpendicular style and a slender spire rises 
from its square battlemented tower. The stained 
windows are very large, each with many tall upright 
stone muUions; one is a memorial to the poet and 
another to his wife, whose memory still lingers as one 
of the best-loved women of the countryside. She 
survived the poet, who died in 1852, by fourteen 
years. They lie buried just outside the north wall 
of the church. The grave is marked by a tall Celtic 
cross, only recently erected, and the occasion was 
observed by a gathering of distinguished Irishmen 
in honor of the memory of their poet. On the 

266 



ROUND ABOUT WILTSHIRE 

pedestal of the cross is graven a verse vs^hich truly 
gives Moore's best claim to remembrance: 

"Dear Harp of my Country, in darkness I found thee. 
The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee 
long; 
When proudly, my ow^n Island Harp, I unbound 
thee. 
And gave all thy chords to light, freedom and 
song." 

And indeed it is the harp of his country that is now 
heard, and not his labored oriental poems. 

It is a very quiet, retired country lane that we 
followed to Corsham, famous for the stately seat 
of Lord Metheun. Corsham Court is an Elizabethan 
mansion of vast extent which has many noted pic- 
tures in its galleries, among them "Charles I. on 
Horseback," which is counted the masterpiece of 
Van Dyck. Near the park entrance is the alms- 
house, with its timeworn gables of yellow stone 
against the dull red of the tile roofing. Just inside 
is the chapel, always present in early English build- 
ings, a fine Jacobean room with a double-deck pul- 
pit and a gallery behind an intricately carved oaken 
screen. One finds these almshouses in many of the 
older English towns. They were founded some 
centuries ago by charitably inclined persons who 

left legacies for the purpose, and are maintained 

267 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

for a limited number of old people — women at Cor- 
sham — who are admitted under certain carefully 
specified conditions. Each inmate has a small, fairly 
comfortable room and usually a little garden plot. 
We saw such houses at Coventry, Campden and 
Corsham — all substantially built and unique in their 
architecture. St. Cross at Winchester and Leices- 
ter's Hospital at Warwick are similar institutions. 
There is always a long waiting-list of applicants for 
the charity. 

At the queer little village of Yatton Keynell, 
as odd and uncouth as its name, we found another 
of the melancholy instances so common in England 
of the degeneration of a fine manor into a slovenly 
farm tenement. We drove into the ill-kept farm- 
yard and picked our way carefully through the de- 
bris to the front entrance, a solid oaken door under 
a curious little porch. The house is a good example 
of the substantial mansion of the old-time English 
squire, and though still quite extensive, is of only 
half its original size. It has a solid oak staircase 
and many touches of its old-time beauty remain. 
While it has no history or tradition, it is worthy a 
visit from anyone interested in English domestic 
architecture and in a rather melancholy phase of 
social conditions. 

A combe, in west of England parlance, is a 
deep, ravinelike valley. Such a description certainly 

268 



ROUND ABOUT WILTSHIRE 
fits the site of Castle Combe, surely one of the love- 
liest villages in Wiltshire, or all of England, for that 
matter. We carefully descended a steep, narrovyr 
road winding through the trees that cover the sharply 
rising hillsides, and paused before the queer old 
market cross of the little town. Nowhere did we 
find a more perfect and secluded gem of rural Eng- 
land. The market cross, whose quadrangular roof 
of tile, with a tall slender shaft rising from the cen- 
ter, is supported on four heavy stone pillars, looks 
as if it had scarce been touched in the four hundred 
years during which it has weathered sun and rain. 
Near by is the solid little church with pinnacled and 
embattled tower, still more ancient. Along shady 
lanes leading from the market place are cozy thatched 
cottages, bright with climbing roses and ivy, and 
others of gray stone seem quite as bleak as the 
cross itself. Nothing could be more picturesque 
than the gateway to the adjoining park — the thatched 
roof of the lodgekeeper's house sagging from the 
weight of several centuries. On either side of the 
village rise the steep, heavily wooded hills and from 
the foot of the glen comes up the murmur of the 
stream. Verily, there is an unknown England — 
the guide-books have nothing of Castle Combe, 
and unless the wayfarer comes upon it like ourselves, 
he will miss one of the most charming bits of old- 
world life in the Kingdom. And it is all uncon- 

269 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

scious of its charm; excepting an occasional incur- 
sion of English trippers, visitors are few. 

The road out of the valley runs along the 
wooded glen, by the swift stream just below, until a 
sharp rise brings us to the up-lands, where we enter 
the main Bath road. And we are glad that the 
close of our day's wandermgs finds us so close to 
Bath, for we may be sure of comfort at the Empire 
— though we may expect to pay for it — and we 
have stopped here often enough to form the acquaint- 
ance so helpful to one in the average English hotel. 
Bath is in Somerset, but the next morning we re- 
cross the border and resume our pilgrimage in Wilt- 
shire. 

How lightly the rarest antiquities were valued 
in England until yesterday is shown by the remark- 
able history of the Saxon chapel at Bradford-on- 
Avon. This tiny church, believed to be the oldest 
in England, was completely lost among the sur- 
rounding buildings; as the discoverer. Rev. Laur- 
ence Jones, says: "Hemmed in on every side by 
buildings of one kind or another, on the north by a 
large shed employed for the purposes of the neigh- 
bouring woolen manufactory; on the south by a 
coach-house and stables which hid the south side 
of the chancel, and by a modem house built against 
the same side of the nave; on the east by what was 

formerly, as Leland tells us, *a very fair house of the 

270 



ROUND ABOUT WILTSHIRE 

building of one Horton, a rich clothier,' the western 
(gable of which was within a very few feet of it, 
and hid it completely from the general view — the 
design and nature of the building entirely escaped 
the notice of the archaeologist.'* 

About 1865 Rev. Jones, then Vicar of Brad- 
ford, was led to his investigations by the accidental 
discovery of stone figures, evidently rude Saxon car- 
vings, during some repairs to the school-room. From 
this beginning the building was gradually disen- 
tangled from the surrounding structures; excavations 
were made and many old carvings unearthed, and 
in short the chapel began to assume its present shape. 
The history of the church is of course very obscure, 
though Rev. Jones with great ingenuity and research 
shows that there is good reason to believe that it was 
founded by St. Aldhelm, who died in 709. If 
this be true, the chapel is twelve hundred years old 
and contests in antiquity with St. Augustine's of 
Canterbury. 

Architecturally, the little church is the plainest 

possible — it comprises a tiny entrance porch, nave 

and chancel. The most remarkable feature of the 

nave is its great height as compared with its other 

dimensions, being the same as its length, or about 

twenty-five feet. The doors are very narrow, barely 

wide enough for one person at a time, and windows 

mere slits through which the sunlight struggled rather 

271 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENaLAND 

weakly with the gloom of the interior. The chapel 
is a regularly constituted Church of England and 
services are held in it once a year. With all its 
crudeness, it serves as one of the milestones of the 
progress of a new order of things in Britain, and a 
space of only three centuries separates this poor little 
structure from the cathedrals! 

The youth who acted as guide led us into his 
cottage near at hand when we asked for picture cards 
of the chapel. His eyes brightened noticeably when 
he learned we were from America. **Ah," said he, 
"I am going there next spring; my brother is already 
there and doing well. Do you know that more than 
a hundred people have gone from Bradford to 
America in the past year? And more are going. 
There is no chance for a common man in England." 
No chance for a comman man in England! — How 
often we heard words to that effect during our pil- 
grimage. 

Bradford has another unique relic in the "tithe 
bam'* built in 1300, a long low structure with enor- 
mously thick, heavily buttressed walls and ponder- 
ous roof — solid oaken timbers overlaid with stone 
slabs. Its capacious dimensions speak eloquently 
of the tribute the monks were able to levy in the 
good old days, for here the people who could not 
contribute money brought their offerings in kind and 
the holy fathers were apparently well prepared to 

272 



ROUND ABOUT WILTSHIRE 

receive and care for anything of value. Today it 
serves as a cow-barn for a nearby farmer. 

We leave Bradford-on-Avon for Marlborough 
over a fine though rather undulating road. We 
pause at Devizes to read the astonishing inscription 
on the town cross : 

"The mayor and corporation of Devizes avail 
themselves of the stability of this building to trans- 
mit to future times the record of an awful event which 
occurred in this market place in the year 1 753, 
hoping that such record may serve as a salutary 
warning against the danger of impiously invoking 
Divine vengeance or calling on the holy name of 
God to conceal the devices of falsehood and fraud. 
On Thursday, the 1 7th of January 1 753, Ruth 
Pierce of Pottern in this county agreed with three 
other women to buy a sack of wheat in the market, 
each paying her due proportion towards the same. 
One of these women collecting the several quotas 
of money, discovered a deficiency and demanded of 
Ruth Pierce what was wanting to make good the 
amount. Ruth Pierce protested that she had paid 
her share and said she wished she might drop down 
dead if she had not. She rashly repeated this awful 
wish, when, to the consternation and terror of the 
surrounding multitude, she instantly fell down and 
expired, having the money concealed in her hand." 

Surely the citizens of Devizes, with such a 
278 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

warning staring them in the face every day, must 
be exemplary disciples of George Washington — and 
what a discouraging place the town would be for 
the headquarters of an American trust! 

The town gets its name from having been a 
division camp back in Roman days. It figured much 
in the civil war, its castle, of which no traces now 
remain, holding out for the king until taken by Crom- 
well in person. There are in the town two of the 
finest churches in Wiltshire, second only to Salis- 
bury Cathedral. Nor is it to be forgotten that the 
parents of Sir Thomas Lawrence were at one time 
keepers of the Bear Inn at Devizes, and the son ac- 
quired his first fame by sketching the guests and 
reciting poetry to them. He lived here until eighteen 
years of age, when he entered the Royal Academy 
at London. 

It was a surprise to find at Avebury, a lonely 
village a few miles farther on, relics of a pre-historic 
stone circle that completely dwarf the giants of Stone- 
henge. This great circle was about three-quarters 
of a mile in circumference and three hundred years 
ago was nearly perfect. The mighty relics were 
destroyed by the unsentimental vandals of the 
neighborhood, and it is said that most of the cottages 
in the village were built from these stones. Some 
of them were buried to clear the land of them ! Bare- 
ly a dozen remain of more than six hundred mono- 

274 



ROUND ABOUT WILTSHIRE 

liths that stood in the circle as late as the reign of 
Elizabeth; and the destruction ceased only fifty 
years ago. The stones are ruder and less symmet- 
rical than those of Stonehenge, but their individual 
bulk averages greater — mighty fragments of rock 
weighing from fifty to sixty tons each. The Ave- 
bury circle is supposed to have been a temple of pre- 
historic sun worshipers, but its crudity indicates that 
it is far older than Stonehenge. 

A short run across the downs soon brought us 
to Marlborough, a name more familiar as that 
of a dukedom than of a town. But the Duke of 
Marlborough lives at Blenheim, forty miles away, 
and has no connection with the Wiltshire town. Its 
vicissitudes were those of almost any of the older 
English towns, though it had the rare distinction of 
having its castle destroyed before the time of Crom- 
well. It has little of great antiquity, since a fire 
two hundred and fifty years ago totally wiped out 
the town that then existed. In the coaching days, 
it was an important point on the London and Bath 
road; and perhaps the motor car may bring back 
something of its old-time prosperity. The Ailes- 
bury Arms, where we stopped for our belated lunch, 
appeared to be a most excellent hotel and is the only 
one I recollect which had a colored man in uniform at 
the door. 

Immediately adjoining Marlborough is Saver- 

275 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

nake Forest, on the estate of the Marquis of Ailes- 
bury, which is said to be the only forest of any ex- 
tent possessed by a subject. This park is sixteen 
miles in circumference, and its chief glory is a straight 
four-mile drive between rows of enormous beeches. 
This splendid avenue is not "closed to motors" (the 
inscription that greeted us at the entrance of so many 
private parks), and our car carried us soberly enough 
through the sylvan scene, which is diversified with 
many grassy glades. There are several famous trees, 
one of which, the King's Oak, k twenty-four feet 
in circumference. Savemake is pleasant and im- 
pressive in summer time, but its real beauty must 
be most apparent in autumn, when, as an English 
writer describes it, "it is a blaze of crimson and 
yellow — the long shadows and golden sunlight giving 
the scene a painted, almost too brilliant effect." 

It is growing late and we must not loiter longer 
by the way if we are to reach Bournemouth for the 
night. We sweep across the great open Salisbury 
Plain past Stonehenge and dov^ the sweet vale of 
the Avon until the majestic spire of Salisbury 
pierces the sky. Then southward through Ring- 
wood to Christchurch, where we catch a glimpse of 
the scant fragments of the castle and the abbey 
church, v^th its melancholy memorial to Shelley. 
A few minutes more on the fine ocean road brings 

us into Bournemouth. 

276 



XVI 

DORSET AND THE ISLE OF WIGHT 

Of the hundreds of hotels whose hospitality 
we enjoyed — or endured — in Britain, no other was 
so barbarously gorgeous as the Royal Bath at 
Bournemouth. The furnishings were rich, though 
verging to some extent on the gaudy, and the whole 
place had an air of oriental splendor about it made 
the more realistic by "fairy grottoes" and gilded pa- 
godas on the grounds. It is a rather low building 
of great extent, with wide, thickly carpeted halls in 
which bronze and plaster statuettes and suits of old 
plate armor are displayed. At the head of the stairs 
a tablet enumerates a few of the patrons of quality — 
an imposing list indeed — which we may partly tran- 
scribe here. The large gilt letters solemnly assure 
us that "This Hotel has been patronised by H. R. 
H. the PRINCE OF WALES, H. R. H. the 
DUCHESS OF ALBANY, and other Members 
of the ROYAL FAMILY: H. I. H. the EM- 
PRESS EUGENIE, H. M. the KING OF THE 
BELGIANS, H. R. H. CROWN PRINCE OF 
SWEDEN and NORWAY, H. R. H. the 
CROWN PRINCESS OF DENMARK, H. R. 

277 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

H. PRINCE ALBRECHT OF PRUSSIA, 
Regent of Brunswick; the Leading Statesmen, and 
the most Eminent and Distinguished Personages vis- 
iting Bournemouth." Verily a list of notables that 
might well overawe a common American citizen. 

But after all, the pretensions of the Royal 
Bath are not altogether unwarranted, for its founda- 
tion, in 1 838, marked the beginning of Bournemouth 
itself. It is since then that this handsome watering- 
place — it has no superior in the Kingdom — ^has come 
into existence. In few other modern resort towns 
has the original idea been so well carried out. The 
pine trees planted by the early promoters now form 
a grove through which runs the magnificent prom- 
enade along the sea. The citizens are mainly of 
the wealthier class and there are many fine private 
residences. There are, of course, the usual adjuncts 
of the watering-place, such as the amusement pier, 
promenades, public gardens and palatial hotels. 
The climate, which is as salubrious as that of Tor- 
quay, brings to the town many people seeking 
health. Bournemouth, of course, has little of history 
or tradition. In the churchyard surrounding its im- 
posing modem church is buried Mary Wollstone- 
craft Shelley and her parents, William and Mary 
Godwin. 

I have not intended to intimate that the Royal 
Bath, with all its splendor, is anything but comfort- 

278 



DORSET AND THE ISLE OP WIGHT 

able and first-class. Our tall casement windows 
opened directly on the sea, and the high ceilings of our 
room were decorated with plaster bosses and sten- 
cilled festoons of roses. The view at sunset over 
the terrace, down the sandy beach and sweeping 
over the sail-flecked waters, was at once restful and 
inspiring. The crowd thronging the promenades 
was in a gay, careless mood; children played in the 
sand in unrestrained joy, while the many colored 
lights on the pier and the lanterns of the boats gave 
a touch of brilliancy to the scene. It all seemed to 
strangely contrast with the spirit of the England we 
were most familiar with, for Bournemouth belongs 
to another day and generation than the England of 
our pilgrimage. 

The Isle of Purbeck is no island at all — even 
as the "Isles," Athelney and Avilion, in no wise ful- 
fill the geographical requirements of islands. It is 
a small peninsula of Southern Dorset, and at its 
very center stands one of the most remarkable of the 
English castles. Thither we go, following the coast 
from Bournemouth through the somber little town 
of Wareham; from thence southward over heather- 
mottled hills, and ere long we catch sight of the gi- 
gantic mound upon which are the straggling frag- 
ments of Corfe Castle. Before the castle gate stands 
Corfe village, a group of plain cottages, seemingly 

as ancient as the ruin overlooking them. All are 

279 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

mellowed by the touch of time; there is naught to 
mar the harmony of the dull silver grays and moss 
greens of the cottages, the solid old church or of 
the ruins which tower in sharp outline against a pale, 
blue sky. 

The entrance to the castle court is well above 
the roofs of the cottages and is severed from the vil- 
lage by a deep fosse crossed by a high-arched stone 
bridge. The gate is flanked by two huge round 
towers, but from the inside one sees the castle prop- 
er, perched on the summit of the mound, its very 
foundation stones high above the gate towers. 
Standing among the stupendous ruins we realize the 
amazing strength the castle possessed, both in con- 
struction and position. Huge fragments of walls 
and towers rise above us like thunder-riven cliffs, 
their bald outlines softened in places by the clinging 
ivy. Here and there masses of fallen masonry are 
lying about like boulders, so solidly does the mass 
cling together. So ruinous are the walls that it is 
difficult to identify the different apartments, and 
even the antiquarians have trouble in restoring the 
original plan of the castle. The keep itself, gen- 
erally intact, is shattered, one fragment, almost the 
entire height of the structure, standing curiously like 
a huge chimney. Clearly enough, an explosive was 
the agent of destruction here — Corfe Castle was 

280 



DORSET AND THE ISLE OF WIGHT 

razed with gunpowder by express order of Crom- 
well's Parliament. 

From the wall on the highest point of the 
mound, one has a wide prospect. It was a clear 
lucent day and when we climbed a broken tower 
the whole peninsula of Purbeck spread beneath us 
like a map. It is now bleak and sterile, spotted with 
gorse and heather and broken in places with chalk 
cliffs. Yet when the castle was built the region was 
covered with a stately forest, of which no trace now 
remains. Far to the north we see the Wareham 
road winding away like a serpent, while a stony trail 
cuts squarely across the moor to the west. When 
we prepare to take our leave, we ask the custodian 
concerning the road to Lulworth, and he points out 
the uninviting byway through the fields. We had 
planned to return to Wareham, but this route, he 
assures us, is shorter and "very good," — strange 
ideas of good roads had the old man if he could 
so describe the ten miles through the moors to Lul- 
worth, quite as bad as any of equal distance we 
found in ten thousand miles. 

But before we go shall we ask the story of 
Corfe? The tales of the abbeys and castles are 
much alike and their end nearly always the same — 
dismantled by Henry, destroyed by Cromwell. Still, 
Corfe is very old; its records go back to Saxon 
times. How weird it is to think that in front of the 

281 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

towers that grimly guard the entrance King Edward 
the Martyr was stabbed by order of his stepmother, 
Elfrida, as he paused to quaff a goblet of wine. It 
happened more than a thousand years ago, and from 
that time until Cromwell's gunpowder sent walls and 
towers tottering to destruction, the sequestered castle 
was the scene of intermittent turmoil and bloodshed. 
Sir Christopher Hatton built the more modern por- 
tions during the reign of Elizabeth, but Corfe 
brought him only trouble. In 1633 it passed from 
the possession of his descendant to Sir John Bankes, 
a loyal supporter of King Charles, and while he was 
active in court and field, his energetic wife held the 
castle against all comers. One siege she repulsed 
and the surrender in 1646 was brought about only 
by treachery. Brave Lady Bankes! The story of 
her gallant defense will not be forgotten while a 
single fragment of the old fortress remains on its 
bleak, wind-swept hill. 

But they have told us that Lulworth and its 
cove are worth seeing and we are soon away over 
the moorland road. A strenuous ten miles it is, 
rough, stony, steep, with numerous gates to open 
and close between the fields, and in places the road 
is so overgrown with grass and heather as to be 
hardly discernible. But from the uplands which it 
traverses one may see the ocean on the left and to 

the right a long array of rolling hills and winding 

282 



DORSET AND THE ISLE OF WIGHT 

valleys, all in the purple glow of full-blown heather, 
with here and there a lonely cottage or group of 
trees. We begin a long descent, following the edge 
of the hill toward the sea, and a sharp turn leads 
down a short steep grade into Lulworth. 

The village some years ago had merely a few 
thatched cottages nestling beneath the high hills to 
the landward, but of late Lulworth has assumed 
airs as a trippers' resort in the summertime, and the 
red-tiled villas rather spoil its old-world effect. Lul- 
worth would be of no more note than other villages 
scattered along the south coast were it not for its 
peculiar cove, an almost circular, basinlike depression 
a few hundred yards in diameter; the sea enters it 
through a narrow opening in the cliffs. We were 
able to take the car down to the very margin of 
the water. An angular, red-whiskered fisherman ap- 
proached us and in broad South Country speech 
offered to row us across the cove. We acquiesced 
in deference to his story of slack times and hard 
luck. The water of the cove has a depth of sixty 
feet near the center and in old days offered shelter 
to smugglers' smacks. From the high cliffs on the 
opposite side we had a magnificent view of the 
rough coast line, a medley of gray, green and white, 
stretching along the foam-flecked sea. 

We soon regain the main road and pass Lul- 
worth Castle but a little way from the village — a 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

massive, rectangular structure with circular, crene- 
lated towers at each corner. It is not of great an- 
tiquity, having been built during the reign of Eliza- 
beth, who is reputed to have visited it, and King 
James came here to escape the plague in London. 

Our route carries us back to Wareham, a 
sleepy, shrunken town with little to suggest its stren- 
uous history. Indeed, one writer declares that no 
town in England has undergone more calamities in 
the shape of sieges and conflagrations from the early 
wars with the Danes down to the capture of the 
place by Cromwell's forces. It is pleasantly situated 
on a strip of meadowlcind between two small rivers, 
and today has about two thousand people. Its 
wall, built more than a thousand years ago, may still 
be traced throughout its entire course and proves 
Wareham once of much greater extent than at pres- 
ent. 

Wimborne Minster takes its name from the 
church whose square towers with odd minaretlike 
pinnacles loom over the town as we approach it 
from the south. And rightly should the name of 
the minster predominate, for it is the redeeming 
feature of the commonplace Dorset town. But it 
is quite enough — few English churches have a great- 
er store of curious relics. The chained library of 
about two hundred and fifty huge volumes, each 
held to its shelf by a heavy, rusty chain, is unique; 

284 



DORSET AND THE ISLE OP WIGHT 

but as one reads the ponderous titles of the books 
he wonders that such precaution should have been 
deemed necessary. Still, there were no **six best 
sellers" in the day when this library was established, 
and even heavy theological treatises in Latin and 
Greek may have been in demand. 

Not less curious is the orrery clock, five hun- 
dred years old, which illustrates the astronomical 
ideas of its time in compelling the sun to make a 
circuit of the dial every day, while the moon oc- 
cupies a month. The sense of humor that mixes 
itself v^th the solemnity of so many English churches 
finds expression here in an odd, gnomelike automaton 
on the western tower that goes through strange con- 
tortions every quarter hour. One cannot but won- 
der just what is in the huge chest — unopened for 
centuries — hewn from a single log and fastened with 
great bunglesome locks; but most likely it contains 
records and documents pertaining to the church. 
But all these marvels are nothing to those which 
Wimbome Minster once possessed but which have 
disappeared; a piece of the true cross and one of 
the manger in which the Lord was born; some of 
the earth from the Bethlehem stable and a few hairs 
from Christ's head; a thigh bone of St. Agatha; a 
few of St. Philip's teeth; a joint of St. Cecelia; the 
hair shirt of St. Thomas a' Becket and a small 
phial of his blood. Verily Wimborne Minster was 

286 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

well supplied with the stock in trade of the early 
church. 

But the minster has associations of a less myth- 
ical nature. In the chancel is the grave of Aethelred, 
King of the West Saxons, brother of Alfred the 
Great, who was slain in 871. A fine brass is set 
in the slab over the grave, but this is doubtless of 
more recent date. There are tombs of several cru- 
saders, though the effigies have been sadly mutilated. 
But the most curious tomb is a gilded coffin set in a 
niche in the wall, a little below the level of the floor. 
On the coffin is the date 1693, which the occupant 
at one time fixed as the date for his demise, but this 
did not occur until ten years later. He expressed 
a wish to be buried "neither under the ground nor 
above it; neither in the church nor out of it*' and 
left an annuity of five pounds to keep his coffin 
touched up yearly — all of which was faithfully car- 
ried out, for thus did the church once lend itself to 
clownish eccentricity. 

Wimbome Minster delights in its relics, its tra- 
ditions, and its medieval customs. The verger told 
us of one of the latter that is perhaps founded on 
more of common sense than many of the old-time 
practices, and which, with that continuity of cus- 
tom that confronts one everywhere in England, still 
prevails. The vestrymen pass through the church 
at times during the services and prod the sleeping 

286 



DORSET AND THE ISLE OF WIGHT 

brethren with long black rods — ^not a bad idea, after 
all, though one that could hardly be inaugurated 
without precedent. 

So much of our glimpse of Wimborne Minster; 
it is late and we are bound for Southampton, forty 
or more miles away as we propose to go. The road 
to Ringwood and from thence to Lymington leads 
through an open, heathlike country — stretches of 
rank-growing ferns interspersed with the vivid pur- 
ple of the heather. A little beyond Ringwood we 
enter New Forest, though in this section little of the 
forest — as one thinks of the word now — is to be 
seen. There are occasional groups of trees, but the 
prevailing feature of the landscape is the fern-clad 
heath. A cheerless road it is, but open, finely sur- 
faced and nearly level, with nothing to hinder the 
mad rush of our motor. 

At Lymington we hail a citizen and inquire 
in our best French accent for the road to Beaulieu. 
He studies awhile and shakes his head. Then we 
seek a never-failing source of information — a garage 
man — ^but to our astonishment he is puzzled. 

"Boloo, Boloo; never heard of it.'* 

"What, the old abbey? It can't be far from 
here." 

"O, you mean Bewley, to be sure — eight miles 
straight away; you can't miss it." 

We hasten on over the moors and through a 

287 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

stretch of woodland into a wooded valley, where we 
come to a village more pleasing than any we have 
yet seen in Dorset — a village of thatched cottages 
and flower gardens fitting well into the charming 
surroundings. The river, held in leash by a weir, 
lies in broad, silvery reaches, fringed with willows, 
and groups of pond lilies dot its surface. Beaulieu, 
aside from its abbey, might be a shrine for the 
motorist, for here is the estate of Lord Montague, 
an enthusiast for the wind-shod steed, who has ex- 
changed his ancestral stables for motors, and, to cap 
it all, is owner and editor of "The Car." 

There is not much left of the abbey. Henry 
VIII., with charactertistic thrift, floated the stone 
dovm the river to build Hurst Castle. The refec- 
tory, now restored and used as a parish church, is 
the most perfect remnant of the once magnificent es- 
tablishment, whose church almost equalled the huge 
dimensions of Winchester Cathedral. The late lord 
did much to restore the ruins, which are now sur- 
rounded by lawns and shrubbery. The monks of 
Beaulieu had wide fame for good cheer — they kept 
great vineyards and their wines were counted the 
best in England. The vineyards throve long after 
the Dissolution, but the last vine, several hundred 
years old, disappeared about two centuries ago. 

Just across the river there is a substantial, comfort- 

288 



DORSET AND THE ISLE OF WIGHT 

able hotel belonging to Lord Montague, which is 
much frequented by fishermen. 

An hour's run over level but winding roads 
brought us to the Great Western Hotel in South- 
ampton. It was a needless trip, after all, for the 
Isle of Wight is best reached from Lymington, 
whither we returned in the morning. 

At L5anington the motor was loaded into a 
tiny boat, nearly filling it from stem to stem, and 
towed by the little channel steamer across the Solent 
to Yarmouth. The captain, who commands a crew 
of four men, invited us into the pilot house and gave 
us his field glasses, entertaining us with a tale of 
hard luck, long hours, small pay and still smaller ap- 
preciation of his service on part of the railway com- 
pany, which owns the steamers. He was a typical 
English salt, bluff and bronzed, with a dialect that 
was refreshing to hear. We did not forget him, 
either, and found him anxiously looking for us next 
day when we were ready to return to the mainland. 

Here we are on the sunniest, cahnest of sum- 
mer days in the isle whose greatest charm for us is, 
perhaps, in the fact that Tennyson spent most of his 
active life here and did much of his best work in his 
island home. But this is far from the only attraction 
of the romantic island, so small that a circuit of sixty- 
five miles takes one over the coast roads. The east- 
em and half the northern coast is dotted with in- 

289 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

creasingly popular resort towns, of which Cowes, of 
yachting fame, is the best known, and thither we 
direct our course. 

It is open day at Osborne House and the short 
excursion by steamer from Southampton appeals to 
English people as few other holiday trips. And it 
is not strange when one reflects that no other place 
was in such a strict sense the home of Queen Vic- 
toria as Osborne House, or has so many memories 
of her life. The rather ineffective Italian villa was 
designed and built by herself and the Prince Con- 
sort and here were passed the happy years of the 
early married life of the royal couple. It was the 
queen*s private property and descended to King Ed- 
ward, who presented it to the nation. As it stands 
now, it may be said to be a memorial to the queen. 
Here are the family portraits and the marvelous 
presents given to Victoria on the occasions of her 
golden and diamond jubilees; some were from other 
rulers, but the most wonderful came from Indian 
potentates and the colonies. These defy all de- 
scription. The queen died here in 1901, and al- 
together Osborne House is full of the deepest sig- 
nificance to the average British subject. The crowds 
that thronged the palace grounds on the day of our 
visit, we were told, were quite representative of the 
open days of the summer season. 

Newport, the capital and metropolis of the is- 

290 



DORSET AND THE ISLE OF WIGHT 

land, is a modern-looking town, whose greatest in- 
terest is Carisbrooke Ccistle, the stronghold of the 
ancient governors. It stands on an eminence over- 
looking the town and charming indeed was the pros- 
pect that greeted us from the walls on that shimmer- 
ing summer afternoon. The town, with its red- 
brick, slate-roofed buildings, lay just below us; about 
it were the tiny fields, with the green meadowlands, 
the ripening grain, great trees and snug cottages. 
One may walk on the battlements — in part modern 
replacements — entirely around the castle walls, and 
thus view the ruin from every angle. 

Carisbrooke*s chief memory is of Charles I., 
who came here as a guest only to be detained as a 
prisoner. The room he occupied has disappeared, 
but the window in its outer wall, through which he 
twice essayed to escape, may yet be seen. It was 
during his captivity here that he first lost hope; his 
hair turned gray and his trim, jaunty cavalier air 
forsook him. Finally, on the last night of Novem- 
ber, 1648, he was seized by two companies of 
Roundhead horse and carried to Yarmouth and 
from thence to Windsor Castle. This Wcis the be- 
ginning of the end. After the King's execution, the 
Princess Elizabeth and the young duke of Glouces- 
ter were sent here by order of Parliament. The 
princess soon died and is buried in Newport Church, 
where a marble effigy marks the tomb. Aside from 

291 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

the melancholy history of King Charles, the annals 
of Carisbrooke have few events of importance. Its 
decay and resulting ruin were due to ages of neg- 
lect. 

Beginning at Ryde, four miles north of New- 
port, we followed the coast, passing a succession of 
resort towns. Ryde is situated on a hillside sloping 
toward the sea, and its water front with drives and 
gardens, is one of the most charming we know of. 
The road from Ryde to Ventnor is crooked, narrow, 
and highly dangerous in places. At times it runs 
through closely bordering forests; again along the 
edge of an almost precipitous incline; then it climbs 
a long, terribly steep hill, but is never more tlian a 
few hundred yards from the coast. 

The Royal Hotel at Ventnor comes up to its 
pretensions but poorly. We were surprised to find 
the last three parties registered in the visitors* book 
coming from France, Germany and Sweden re- 
spectively, while our own added a fourth foreign 
registry in succession. The number of foreign 
guests at this hotel seemed to indicate that Ventnor 
is more popular with continental people than the av- 
erage English resort town, for as a rule we found 
very few European guests. Ventnor is situated on 
a precipitous hill-slope, quite sheltered from the 
north and east. The houses run up the hill in ter- 
races and the ledge of rock along the beach is 

292 



DORSET AND THE ISLE OF WIGHT 

barely wide enough for the promenade. The cK- 
mate is mild and few spots in England are more fav- 
ored by invalids. It was this that brought poor 
John Keats in 1817, and he composed "Lamia" 
during his stay. Here was a favorite resort of Ten- 
nyson before he settled in Freshwater, and Long- 
fellow's visit in 1 868 is commemorated by an inscrip- 
tion which he composed for the fountain near the 
hotel in Shanklin, the old town nearly contiguous to 
Ventnor. Shanklin contains many bits of the pic- 
turesque old-time island — touches of antiquity quite 
wanting in Ventnor. 

The following day was one to be remembered; 
a day as near perfection as one may have in Eng- 
land — the sky pale blue, cloudless and serene, ton- 
ing to lucent gray near the horizon, and the air fresh 
and invigorating. Our road closely followed the 
coast with an almost continual view of the sea. The 
ocean lay darkly under the rocks, rippled over 
stretches of silvery beach, or glittered under the long 
headlands, whose white chalk cliffs were almost 
dazzling in the sunlight. There were flower-em- 
bowered cottages along the road, but no villages for 
many miles. We gave two hours to the twenty miles 
to Freshwater and enjoyed the beauty to our hearts' 
content — but no! to do that one must linger until 
darkness shuts out the view. 

Freshwater became famous through its associ- 
293 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

ation with Tennyson, and the poet by coming here 
destroyed to a certain extent the very retirement and 
quiet that he sought, for the tourists followed him, 
much to his disgust. Yet he used to go about in a 
great slouching hat and military cloak that advertised 
his presence to everyone — an inconsistency that even 
his little grandchild is said to have noticed, and that 
she queried in her childish innocence, **If you don't 
like people to look at you. Grandpa, why do you 
wear that queer hat and cloak?" But in any event, 
the trippers, though often snubbed for their pains, 
flocked to Freshwater. They still come to the old 
home of the poet, and the present Lord Tennyson 
is said to welcome them even less than did his father. 
We stopped at a post card shop just opposite 
the rear entrance to Farringford — a rustic gate op- 
ening into a narrow roadway between tall trees — and 
they told us that the ban on visitors was absolute. 
But one might see the house from the road. The un- 
precedented snow of the preceding winter had almost 
destroyed the tree so beloved of the poet — the 
"giant Ilex, keeping leaf 
When frosts are keen and days are brief," 
which hid the front of the house. Besides, the owner 
was now at Aldworth and the gardener might not 
be so averse to visitors — but we ignore the hint and 
content ourselves with a visit to Freshwater Church. 
Lady Tennyson is buried in the churchyard, her 

294 



DORSET AND THE ISLE OF WIGHT 

grave marked by a white marble cross. Inside there 
are tablets inscribed to the poet and his wife, who 
were regular attendants at the church, and a marble 
statue to the memory of Lionel, the son who died on 
shipboard in the Red Sea when returning from In- 
dia. The village of Freshwater is full of picturesque 
cottages, and there are many more pretentious mod- 
em villas which indicate that the blight of a popular 
watering place threatens it. High on the hill, over 
the town and sea, towers the Tennyson memorial, 
a great Celtic cross, forty feet in height, reared by the 
poet's admirers in England and America. 

There is little to see at Yarmouth, where we 
wait an hour or more for the boat. In the church 
is buried Admiral Holmes, the man who took the 
village of New Amsterdam from the Dutch and 
called it New York, and a marble statue, represent- 
ing the great seaman standing by a cannon, com- 
memorates this and other achievements. An Eng- 
lish writer tells this curious story of the monument: 
"Even a poor judge of such things can see at 
a glance that this is no ordinary piece of work. It 
is said that the unfinished statue was intended to 
represent Louis XIV. and was being conveyed by 
the sculptor in a French ship to Paris in order that 
the artist might model the head from the living sub- 
ject. Holmes captured the vessel and conceived the 
brilliant idea of compelling the artist to complete the 

295 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

work with his (the admiral's) likeness instead of 
that of le Grand Monarque. The old fellow seems 
to wear a grim smile as he thinks of the joke, but 
as the head is undoubtedly of inferior workmanship 
to the body, the artist may have felt that he had 
his revenge." 

The admiral was a native of Yarmouth and a 
part of his mansion is incorporated into the Pier 
Hotel. It still retains the old staircase and much 
emtique paneling; and a tablet on the wall recites 
that Charles II. was a guest here in 1671 on a visit 
to Holmes. 

We were soon aboard the little steamer, and 
despite marine rules and regulations, on the bridge 
with our friend the captain. We noticed that he 
Wcis going far out of the usual course, directly to- 
ward the wreck of the Gladiator. For the warship 
Gladiator lay on her side a few furlongs off the 
coast west of Yarmouth, whither she had staggered 
and fallen when mortally wounded in a collision with 
the American liner, St. Paul, a few months before. 
Salvage crews were working to raise her and we 
naturally expressed interest in the sight. Our an- 
cient mariner heard it and as he steered toward the 
wreck muttered something about getting "out of the 
way of the current,** but added, "They may think 
I did it to give you a good view of the Gladiator!" 

— and we are still wondering if that was the reason 

296 



DORSET AND THE ISLE OF WIGHT 

for his detour. Far down the Solent he pointed 
out the Needles, Swinburne's "loose-linked rivet* 
of rock," and he told us of the wild storms and 
shifting bars that confound the navigators in this 
locality. Ere long he had to attend closely to busi- 
ness, for the channel to Lymington is narrow and 
tortuous, being navigable only at high tide. A 
large coaling steamer partly obstructed our way and 
called forth a series of marine objurgations from our 
friend, but he quickly swung to the pier and the 
motor soon scrambled out of her little craft up the 
steep bank to terra firma. 

We find that our jaunt in the Isle of Wight 
has covered only seventy miles and occupied just 
a day; still, thanks to our trusty car, we have seen 
about all the points of interest that the average tour- 
ist would care to see and which it would have re- 
quired several days to visit in the ordinary manner 
of travel. 



297 



XVII 

SOUTH ENGLAND NOOKS 

One will find Lyndhurst in New Forest a 
pleasant place for a day's rest after returning from 
the Isle of Wight to the mainland. Especially is 
this so if it be early in the summer before the more 
crowded season comes on. The town will be fair- 
ly quiet then and the Crown Inn has an air of solid 
comfort that almost takes it out of the class of re- 
sort hotels. Its spacious gardens to the rear afford a 
sylvan retreat that is an agreeable variation from an 
almost continual life on the open road. Lyndhurst, 
it is true, is no longer the retired village of half a 
century ago, when Leighton and Millais came here 
to get away from busy London and to pursue their 
sketching without interruption. The rather ugly red 
brick church just over the way from the Crown evi- 
dences Lyndhurst's modernity, though its distressing 
newness may be momentarily forgotten in contem- 
plation of Leighton's great altar piece, illustrating 
the story of the ten virgins. 

One may care little about William Rufus, who 
was so fond of hunting in New Forest and who, 
while engaiged in his favorite pastime, was killed by 

298 



SOUTH ENGLAND NOOKS 

a forester's arrow; yet a pilgrimage to the spot 
where he is said to have fallen is worth while — not 
merely to see the iron casting which encases the old 
stone, but to view one of the prettiest glades in the 
forest. We came early in the day, which is the time 
to come to avoid the crowds of trippers who flock 
here in season, and we had undivided possession of 
the scene of sylvan beauty. A shaded byway leads 
to the main road, which soon brings us to Romsey. 

There is little to detain the wayfarer in Rom- 
sey aside from the abbey church, whose high roof 
reaches almost to the top of its central tower — in 
fact, the noble bulk of the church rises over the 
town, completely dwarfing the low buildings that 
crowd closely around it. One can but admire its 
great size and perfect proportions, and though there 
may be incongruous details, these will hardly be 
noticed by the layman. 

The interior is almost pure Norman — massive 
pillars supporting the great rounded arches. The 
height and size of the columns give the church an 
impressiveness that is hardly surpassed by any other 
in the Kingdom, and after DuAam, it easily ranks 
as the finest example of Norman architecture ex- 
tant. It dates mainly from the twelfth century, and 
a Saxon church previously occupied the site, slight 
remains of this being incorporated into the present 
building. TTie most remarkable Saxon relic is a 

299 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

life-size image of Christ upon the cross, of a type 
not found later than the eleventh century. 

There is often a gruesome side to the old English 
church — a bit of human skin flayed from a living 
church robber is shown at Gloucester, frightful ef- 
figies representing decayed corpses at Ccuiterbury 
and Sherborne, and at Romsey a broad plait of 
human hair, found in recent restoration work. It 
was in a leaden casket and even the bones had 
mouldered to dust, but the soft brown hair was al- 
most unaltered, and it is thought to have adorned 
the head of some Roman maiden, for the casket 
showed traces of Roman work. The old caretaker 
hdis reserved this weird little relic for the last of his 
wonders — we leave the abbey and pass out into 
the sunshine of the perfect summer day. We shall 
not soon forget Romsey Abbey Church and we 
cast more than one backward glance as its giant 
bulk recedes in the distance. 

Surely Twyford, a few miles south of Win- 
chester, has quite outlived any claim to its one-time 
title of * 'Queen of Hampshire villages.** It has paid 
the price of its popularity; modem brick buildings 
crowd upon its creeper-clad cottages or have super- 
seded them aJtogether. Its church has been restored 
to the point of newness, and its yew tree, locally 
reputed to be the largest in England, is easily sur- 
passed by the one at Selbome. Still, Twyford is 

300 



SOUTH ENGLAND NOOKS 

not without an especial interest to American visitors. 
Here stands the Elizabethan mansion where Ben- 
jamin Franklin penned his autobiography while a 
guest of the vicar of St. Asaphs. The rambling old 
house with a fine stretch of lawn in front of it may 
be plainly seen from the road. 

No matter how frequently the wanderer may 
pause in Winchester, the attraction of the ancient 
capitcil can never be outworn. One might spend a 
day cimong the college buildings, whose rough flint 
walls and slate roofs, sagging but little beneath the 
weight of years, stand much the same as when the 
builder finished them six hundred years ago. Nor 
should St. Cross and its quaint brotherhood, one 
of those strange medieval charities, be forgotten. A 
great quadrangle of buildings and an elaborate 
church, all for "thirteen poor men decayed and paist 
their strength,'* seems a great means for a small 
achievement. Much has fallen into disuse, but the 
dhurch is still in good condition and in many respects 
a remarkable piece of architecture. But after all, 
Winchester's greatest charm is not in her college or 
her cathedral, but in her old-world streets and odd 
corners. Nor should one forget the shops in which 
antiques of merit in furniture, books and other articles 
may be found. 

A broad easy road leads from Winchester 

through Alton to Jane Austen's Chawton, from 

301 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

whence a secluded byway brings us to Selbome, a 
nook that every tourist knows. But Selborne, nest- 
ling beneath its hills, its thatched cottages and weath- 
er-worn buildings stretching along a wide grass- 
grown street, has no hint of the resort town. There 
are other villages in the Hampshire and Surrey hills 
that may match it, but none of them had a Gilbert 
White to give it immortality. 

The street was quite deserted on the drowsy 
summer afternoon when we checked our car under 
the great tree beneath which the village worthys con- 
gregate in Selborne. A shopkeeper pointed out 
the Wakes, once White's vicarage, which a mod- 
em owner has extended into a large rambling house, 
probably bearing little resemblance to the modest 
home of the curate of Selborne. Still, it incorpor- 
ates his cottage, though red brick and tile have dis- 
placed the half-timber gables and thatched roof. 
But his church is not much altered and the giant 
yew, the largest we saw in England, is still standing, 
hale and green. Its circumference measured twenty- 
three feet in White's time, and he declared that its 
years must be at least coeval with Christianity. Its 
girth at present exceeds twenty-five feet. One cannot 
stand beneath it without being impressed with its 
hoary antiquity, cuid the great events that crowd 
the procession of years which have passed over the 

old tree quite overwhelm one. 

302 



SOUTH ENGLAND NOOKS 

Indeed, it must have stood here when the 
Romans ruled in Britain; it was sturdy and green 
when the Conqueror came a thousand summers 
past, and it looks today as if it well might weather 
the storms of a third millennium. Such historic trees 
have almost a human personality; and, fortunately, 
they are carefully guarded by an enlightened public 
sentiment in England. 

The day is a quiet one in Selbome; we have 
the yew tree and church all to ourselves. We wan- 
der about the churchyard and with difficulty lo- 
cate the unpretentious headstone with the almost il- 
legible initials, "G. W.'* — a simple memorial, in- 
deed — though inside the church there is an appro- 
priate tablet to the memory of the well beloved 
naturalist. One can easily see how he could lead 
in Selborne the simple studious life reflected in his 
works. Verily, we need a revival of his plain com- 
mon sense today when the fiction of the nature-faker 
bids fair to supersede the facts of natural history. 

From Selbome it is but a step across the border 
into the downs of Sussex — "Green Sussex, fading 
into blue,** as the poet so aptly puts it. The low 
sun strikes along the rough hills as we enter Mid- 
hurst, nestling in a nook in the downs and reached 
by rather difficult roads. It is a quiet town with 
an air of thorough self-contentment; a town of 

weather-beaten houses with over-hanging timbered 

308 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

gables, sagging tile roofs and diamond-paned case- 
ments; one long wide street sweeps through it with 
narrow crooked lanes branching to either side — ba 
unspoiled old-country town, as yet quite undiscov- 
ered by the globe-trotters. 

And yet Midhurst is not without historic im- 
portance, having been a place of considerable size 
at the time of the Conquest. The site of its strong 
castle which once stood on the banks of the pretty 
little river, Rother, is now marked only by a grass- 
covered mound; but it was once the home of a 
powerful Norman family, the Bohuns, who in 1547 
entert2uned King Edward VI. in great splendor. 
Nor is Midhurst wanting in associations with fam- 
ous men, for Sir Charles Lyell, the great geologist, 
and Richard Cobden, the "Father of English Free 
Trade," received their early education in the ancient 
grammar school which may yet be seen. 

But the romance of Midhurst is in Cowdray 

Park, the estate which adjoins the town. What a 

pity it is that the mansion and the story did not 

seize the fancy of Walter Scott — who alone could 

have done it justice. We entered the park and 

drove through an avenue of giant chestnuts directly 

to the shattered palace. And what a glorious ruin 

it is, with its immense stone-mullioned windows, its 

great grouped chimneys, and sculptured mantels and 

bosses that cling to the wall here and there. Though 

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SOUTH EN&LAND NOOKS 

roofless, the walls are almost entire, and over them 
the ivy flings its dark mantle and falls in heavy 
masses from the broken battlements. One does not 
care to analyze the ruin into its component parts — 
what did we care for hall and chapel and chamber? 
It is the impression that came to us as we wandered 
through it in the fading light that lingers with us 
now. What a memory it is of darkened halls, of 
great empty windows, through which the light falls 
mellow and ghostly, and of weird traditions which 
the old crone who keeps the key constantly droned 
in our ears. 

The curse of Cowdray has made more than 
one listener shudder and turn pale and even those 
who listen as we do in benevolent scepticism can 
only say, "Strange — strange!" For the lands of 
Cowdray were rent from the monkish owners by the 
ruthless Henry and were given into the possession 
of the first viscount of Montague, who built the 
splendid palace, one of the costliest and most im- 
posing in the Kingdom. It was in no sense a forti- 
fied castle, but a great baronial residence, standing 
on low-lying grounds with no attempt at strength of 
position. In some respects the palace recalls Kirby 
Hall, though here ruin is more complete. 

When the last monkish habitant departed 

from the lands of Cowdray, he left his curse upon 

them: that the line of the Montagues should per- 

305 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

ish by fire and water. It was long in being ful- 
filled, but in I 793 the palace was destroyed by fire 
and the last Montague was drowned in a foolhardy 
attempt to swim across the Rhine above the Falls 
of Schoffhausen. He must have perished without 
knowing the fate of his ancestral home. With the 
palace were burned many works of art and an- 
tiquities of inestimable value, among the latter the 
roll of Battle Abbey and the coronation robes and 
sword of William the Conqueror. The estate de- 
scended to the sister of Lord Montague, who, dread- 
ing the curse, is said to have guarded her two sons 
with the greatest care, even filling the fish ponds near 
her home and keeping the youths jealously away 
from sea and river. Yet one day they escaped from 
the care of their attendants and were both drowned 
in the sea at Bognor. The broken-hearted mother 
sold Cowdray to the Earl of Egremont, who had 
no issue to inherit it. But the curse seems to cling 
to it still — after our visit a wealthy London con- 
tractor purchased the estate and began a thorough 
repair of the modern house (not the ruined palace), 
but while the work was in progress the meuision 
caught fire and was burned to the ground. 

Darkness overtakes us as we sweep along the 
hills toward Worthing, where we arrive by lamp- 
light. Morning reveals a quiet and somewhat se- 
cluded watering-towTi, patronized by people who 

306 



SOUTH ENGLAND NOOKS 

seek to get away from the ceremony and expense 
of such places as Brighton and Bournemouth. Its 
hotels are unpretentious, comfortable and accom- 
modating — qualities not so common to resort inns as 
to go without notice. But Worthing is modern; 
there is little to detain one on such a pilgrimage as 
our own. We follow the broad white road which 
climbs steadily northward from the sea to the dis- 
tant hills and winds among them to the dreary ham- 
let of Washington. The name, so familiar to us, 
bears no reference to the distinguished family. It 
is of old Saxon derivation — Wasa-inga-tun (town 
of the sons of Wasa). 

Near at hand is Warminghurst, once the Sus- 
sex home of William Penn, who bought the great 
house in 1 676. One of his children died here and is 
buried in Coolham churchyard close by. Penn was 
wont to attend services at the meeting house not far 
away, which was built of timbers taken from one of 
his ships. It goes locally by the strange designation 
of "The Blue Idol'* — just why, no one seemed to 
know — and we wandered long in unmarked by- 
roads ere we found it. It is a mile and a half from 
Coolham, and one follows for a mile a narrow lane 
branching from the Billingshurst road. 

The simple old caretaker lives in a modern ad- 
dition to the chapel and tills the plot of ground in 
connection with it. The chapel is a low brick-and- 

307 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 
timber building whose interior is the plainest im- 
aginable; a half dozen high-backed benches, a 
platform pulpit without a stand, and a few books 
made up its furnishings. As at Jordans, the women 
sat during worship in a gallery which could be cut 
off by a sliding partition in case of interruption by 
persecutors. The old law forbade the assembling 
of women in the Quaker meetings, but from the 
gallery they could participate in the services, yet 
could instantly be shut out of the room if the king's 
officers should arrive. Outside, the chapel is sur- 
rounded by greensward and tall trees, and the old 
man was mowing the grass in the tiny burying- 
ground. Services are still held at intervals, as they 
have been for the past two centuries or more. Prob- 
ably the spot was chosen on account of its very 
retirement, since when the chapel was built it was 
a criminal offense for the Quakers to assemble in 
any place of worship. The chapel is unaltered and 
seems quite as remote and lonely as it must have 
been in Penn's time; and the spirit of that old day 
comes very near as one stands in the tiny room where 
the founder of the great American Commonwealth 
was wont to worship according to his conscience, 
coming hither from Warminghurst in his heavy ox- 
wagon. 

We now begin an uninterrupted run to the 
east through Mid-Sussex over an unsurpassed road 

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SOUTH ENaLAND NOOKS 

to Cuckfield, Hayward's Heath, and Uckfield. We 
continue on the London and Eastbourne road to 
Hailsham, from whence a digression of three or four 
miles brings us to the ruins of Herstmonceux Castle. 
Though styled a castle, it was really a great castel- 
lated country mansion, never intended as a defensive 
fortress. It reminds one in a certain way of Cow- 
dray, though it lacks much of the beauty and grace 
of the Midhurst palace, and its conversion by its 
owner into a picnic ground also does much to de- 
tract. 

The story of its destruction is peculiar. It was 
deliberately dismantled and partially torn down in 
1 777 by its owner, who used the materials in erect- 
ing a smaller house, now called Herstmonceux Place, 
which would be less expensive to maintain. It is in- 
teresting to know that Wyatt, the architect who 
dealt so barbarously with Salisbury and Hereford 
Cathedrals, was the advisor of this wanton destruc- 
tion. The last descendant of the original owner died 
in 1 662, and since then the estate has changed hands 
many times. It is now one of the most popular trip- 
per resorts in Sussex and during the summer months 
the daily visitors number hundreds. 

It is not our wont to trouble ourselves much 
with the sober history of such places, but there is 
one melancholy incident of the early days of the 
palace which has weird interest for the wanderer 

309 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

who stands amidst the shattered grandeur, and which 
we may best relate in the words of an English his- 
torian : 

"Lord Dacre, of Herstmonceux, a young noble- 
man of high spirit and promise, not more than twenty- 
four years old, was tempted by his own folly, or 
that of his friends, to join a party to kill deer in the 
park of an unpopular neighbor. The excitement 
of lawless adventure was probably the chief or only 
inducement for the expedition; but the party were 
seen by the foresters; a fray ensued, in which one of 
the latter was mortally wounded and died two days 
after. 

"Had Lord Dacre been an ordinary offender 
he would have been disposed of summarily. Both 
he and his friends happened to be general favorites. 
The Privy Council hesitated long before they re- 
solved on a prosecution and at last it is likely they 
were assisted by a resolution from the King. 

" *I found all the Lords at the Star Chamber,' 

Sir William Paget wrote to Wriothesley, 'assembled 

for a conference touching Lord Dacre's case. They 

had with them present the Chief Justice with others 

of the King's learned council, and albeit I was 

excluded, yet they spoke so loud, some of them, 

that I might hear them notwithstanding two doors 

shut between us. Among the rest that could not 

agree to wilful murder, the Lord Cobham, as I took 

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SOUTH ENGTLAND NOOKS 

him by his voice, was very vehement and stiff.* 
They adjourned at last to the King's Bench. The 
Lord Chancellor vv^as appointed High Stew^ard and 
the prisoner was brought up to the bar. He pleaded 
*not guilty,: he said that he intended no harm, he 
was very sorry for the death of the forester, but it 
had been caused in an accidental struggle; and 
*surely,* said Paget, who was president, *it was a 
pitiful sight to see a young man brought by his own- 
folly into so miserable a state.' The lords, therefore, 
as it seems they had determined among themselves, 
persuaded him to withdraw his plea and submit to 
the King's clemency. He consented; and they re- 
paired immediately to the Court to intercede for his 
pardon. Eight persons in all were implicated — 
Lord Dacre and seven companions. The young 
noblem^an was the chief object of commiseration; 
but the King remained true to his principles of equal 
justice; the frequency of crimes of violence had re- 
quired extraordinary measures of repression; and if 
a poor man was to be sent to the gallows for an act 
into which he might be tempted by poverty, thought- 
lessness could not be admitted as an adequate ex- 
cuse bcause the offender was a peer. Four out of 
the eight were pardoned. For Lord Dacre there 
was to the last an uncertainty. He was brought to 
the scaffold, when an order arrived to stay the ex- 
ecution, probably to give time for a last appeal to 

311 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

Henry. But if it was so the King was inexorable. 
Five hours later the sheriff was again directed to 
do his duty; and the full penalty was paid." 

Leaving the ruined mansion we drop down to 
the seashore, passing Bexhill on the way to Hastings, 
which is now a modern city of sixty-five thousand 
people, its red-brick, tile-roofed houses rising in ter- 
races overlooking the sea. Once it was an import- 
ant seaport, but here the sea has advanced and wiped 
out the harbor, and it is now chiefly known as a 
watering-place. A few miles from the town was 
fought the Battle of Hastings, which stcunped the 
name so deeply on English history and marked the 
overthrow of the Saixon dynasty. On a precipi- 
tous hill looking far over town and sea stands the 
scanty ruin of its castle, whose story is much clouded, 
though legend declares it was built by the Con- 
queror. 

Far greater is the attraction of the unspoiled 
old towns of Winchelsea and Rye, a few miles 
farther on the coast road. A former visit gives them 
a familiar look, but we stop an hour in Rye. The 
receding sea robbed these towns of their importance 
hundreds of years ago, and their daily life is now 
quite undisturbed by modern progress. Each oc- 
cupies a commanding hill separated by a few miles 
of low-lying land. A local writer makes the truest 

appeal for Rye when he declares that it gives us 

812 




THE HOSPITAL, RYE, 
From Orig-inal Water Color by Theresa Thorp, 



A. R. M. S. 



SOUTH ENGLAND NOOKS 

today a presentment of a town of centuries earlier. 
"Rye," he says, *'is southern and opulent in coloring. 
There is here mellowness, a gracious beauty; one 
has the feeling that every house and garden is the 
pride and love of its owner, and indeed this impres- 
sion is a true one, for it is the characteristic of Rye 
to inspire the loving admiration of its inhabitants, 
whether native-born or drawn thither in later life." 

Rye has a magnificent church, the largest in 
Sussex, which overshadows the town from the very 
crest of the hill. A very unusual church it is, with 
a low cone-pointed tower and triple roofs lying along- 
side each other. At the end of the nave are three 
immense stone-mullioned windows, very effective and 
imposing, though the glass is modern. Queen Eliza- 
beth presented to the church the remarkable old 
tower clock which has marked time steadily for more 
than three hundred years. The pendulum swings 
low inside, describing a wide arc only a little above 
the preacher's head. 

Rye itself is quite as interesting as its church, 
a place of crooked lanes and odd buildings, among 
which the hospital pictured in such a realistic man- 
ner by our artist is one of the most notable. It is 
a splendid combination of stucco and timber, with 
red tiled gables and diamond-paned lattice windows. 
Much else there is in Rye to tempt one to linger, 
but the sun is setting and we are off on the fine level 

313 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

road to Folkestone. For the latter half of the dis- 
tance we run along the very edge of the ocean — 
as we saw it, fifteen miles of shimmering twilight 
water. Those who are attracted by the gruesome 
will pause at the old church in Hythe to see the 
strange collection of human remains, thousands of 
skulls and bones, that are ranged on shelves or piled 
in heaps on the floor in the crypt. Whence these 
ghastly relics came, antiquarians dispute; but local 
tradition has it that a great battle was fought near 
Hythe, between the Britons and Danes, and these 
bones are the remains of the slain. Be that as it may, 
one does not care to linger — a mere glance at such 
a chamel house is quite sufficient. 

Folkestone may well contest with Brighton, 
Bournemouth and Portsmouth for first honors among 
English watering-places. We have seen nearly all 
of them and we should be inclined, in some partic- 
ulars, to give the honors to Folkestone; but let those 
who enjoy such places be the judges. Anyway, 
there are few statelier hotels in England than those 
on the east cliff and few that occupy a more mag- 
nificent site. At the Grand they are more willing 
to permit you to take ease than at most English 
hotels of its class. You are not required under pen- 
alty to be on hand for dinner at a certain hour, an- 
nounced usually by a strident gong, and to make the 

pretense of swallowing an almost uneatable table d' 

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SOUTH ENGLAND NOOKS 

hote concoction pushed along by a vigilant waiter 
bent on making all possible speed. This hotel and 
many others stand on the east cliff several hundred 
feet above the sea, but one may reach the shore by 
a lift, or if inclined to exercise, by a steep winding 
pathway. On moderately clear days, the white line 
of the French coast may be seen from the hotel. 

Very like to Folkstone is Dover, but seven miles 
farther up the coast, and thither we proceed over a 
steep road closely following the sea. Dover was 
chief of the cinque ports of olden days and its small 
bay still affords shelter for shipping, including ocean- 
going steamers. But the first thing that catches the 
pilgrim's eye when he comes into Dover is the splen- 
didly preserved, or rather restored, castle, which 
stands in sullen inaccessibility on the clifflike hill 
overlooking the city. We make the stiff climb up 
to the castle gateway, only to be halted by the 
guard with the information that we are an hour early. 
We have had such experiences before and we sug- 
gest that no possible harm can be done by admitting 
us at once. 

"I really cawn't do it, sir," said the guard. 
"Some of the guards got careless in letting people 
in before hours and the Colonel says he will court- 
martial the next one who does it." 

Of course this silences our importunity and we 
engage our soldier friend in conversation. Why 

315 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

did he enter the army ? — Because a common man has 
no chance in England ; he was going to the dogs and 
the army seemed the best opportunity open to him. 
He had enlisted three years ago and it had made a 
man of him, to use his own words. He rather looked 
it, too — a husky young fellow with a fairly good face. 
The castle is strongly fortified and garrisoned 
by a regiment of soldiers. The interior of the court 
is largely occupied by barrack buildings, and of the 
ancient castle the keep is the most important portion 
left. It was built to withstand the ages, for its walls 
are twenty-three feet in thickness and it rises to a 
height of nearly one hundred feet. Within it is a 
well three hundred feet deep, supposed to have been 
sunk by the Saxon king, Harold. The primitive 
chapel dates from Norman times. There are also 
remains of the foundation of the lighthouse that oc- 
cupied the commanding height, long 

"ere the tanner's daughter's son 
From Harold's hand his realm had won." 

Dover has other antiquities, among them a 
church so old that its origin has been quite forgotten. 
Roman brick was used in its construction, probably 
by Saxon builders. Over against the town gleams 
the white chalk of Shakespeare's Cliff, so called be- 
cause of the reference in King Lear. Queen Eliz- 

316 



SOUTH ENGLAND NOOKS 
abeth visited Dover and vented her wit for rhyming 
on its mayor, who, standing on a stool, began, 

"Welcome, gracious Queen,** 
only to get for his pains, 

**0 gracious fool. 
Get off that stool." 

The eastern Kentish coast, lying nearest to the 
continent, once had many towns of importance that 
have since dwindled and decayed. Among these 
is Sandwich, once second of the cinque ports; but 
the coast line receded until it is now two miles away. 
The town contains some of the richest bits of medie- 
val architecture in England. The wall which once 
surrounded it may still be traced and one of the 
original gateways is intact. We drove through the 
narrow crooked lanes that serve as streets in Sand- 
wich, and could scarce believe the population no 
more than three thousand. The low lichen-covered 
buildings, with leaning walls and sagging, dull-red 
tiles, straggle over enough space for a city of three 
or four times the size. There is no touch of new- 
ness anywhere; no note of inharmonious color jars 
with the silver grays, grayish greens and brovmish 
reds that prevail on every hand ; no black and white 
paint destroys the beauty of the brick and timber 
fronts and gables. Most of the houses have but one 
story and the streets run with delightful disregard 

317 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

of straight lines and bid defiance to points of the 
compass. The two churches with splendid open- 
beamed oak roofs are well in keeping with the spirit 
of the surrounding twelfth and thirteenth century 
structures. They stand a mute evidence of the one- 
time greatness and prosperity of Sandwich. One of 
the old houses is pointed out as the stopping-place 
of Queen Elizabeth when she was touring the 
Kentish coast. 

From Sandwich we skim along smooth, level 
roads to Ramsgate, Broadstairs and Margate, the 
last of the long chain of resort towns of the south- 
eastern coast stretching from Land's End to the 
Thames River. What an array of them there is: 
Penzance, Torquay, Portsmouth, Bournemouth, 
Brighton, Eastbourne, Bexhill, Hastings, Folke- 
stone, Dover, Ramsgate, Broadstairs, Margate, and 
a host of lesser lights. We have seen them nearly 
all and many more such places on the northern and 
western coasts, as well as a number of inland resorts. 
It is therefore a phase of England with which we 
have become fairly familiar, and the old towns and 
isolated ruins seem only the more charming and time- 
mellowed by contrast with the crowded and some- 
times gaudy modern resorts. Margate, situated just 
at the mouth of the Thames on low-lying grounds, 
is one of the most pretentious of all. 

A few miles out of Margate we turn from the 

318 



SOUTH ENGLAND NOOKS 

main Canterbury road into a byway from which we 
enter the lanes through the fields and farmyards. 
The country is level and intersected everywhere by 
sluggish drains; but the wheatfields, nearly ready 
for the harvest, are as fine as we have seen in Eng- 
land. From afar we catch sight of the twin towers 
of the ruined church at Reculver, the object of our 
meanderings in the fen-land lanes. We halt in the 
tiny hamlet beneath the shadow of the grim sentinels 
on the sea-washed headland. The old caretaker 
hastens to meet us and is eager to relate the story of 
the ruin. Aside from the towers there is nothing but 
fragments of the walls; he points out clearly where 
portions of a Roman temple were incorporated into 
the Saxon church, and also the Saxon work that the 
Normans used. One hundred years ago, this re- 
markable church was nearly intact; but the rapid 
encroachment of the sea upon the brittle rock on 
which the structure stands convinced a short-sighted 
vicar that it would soon be undermined by the 
waves. It was therefore torn down, with the ex- 
ception of the towers, and the stone used for a 
small church farther inland. The sea is now held 
in check by stone and timber riprap and though it 
gnaws at the very foot of the ruin, there seems little 
chance that it will farther advance. Besides the 
church there are the remains of a great Roman 
castrum, or fort, at Reculver: a strong wall, several 

319 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

feet high in places, once enclosed a space of consider- 
able extent, though a large part has been inundated 
by the sea. 

One will never weary of Canterbury; come as 
often as he may he will always feel a thrill of pleasure 
as the great cathedral towers break on his vision. 
And indeed there is nothing of the kind in all 
Britain finer than these same towers. We reach 
the town later than we planned and hasten to the 
cathedral, but the guide, wearied with troops of 
holiday visitors during the day, tells us we are too 
late. We find means, however, to extend our time 
and to enlist his willing services; and thus we come 
to see every detail of the magnificent church as we 
could hardly have done earlier in the day. It has 
no place in this chronicle, this 

"mother minster vast 
That guards Augustine's rugged throne," 

about which volumes have been written and with 
whose history and traditions the guide-books fairly 
teem. We have visited it before during a Sunday- 
morning service, but its vast dim aisles, its great 
crypts, its storied shrines and tombs, and tfie ivy-clad 
ruin of its old monastery, all make a strangely dif- 
ferent impression v\^hen viewed in the deepening 
shadows of the departing day. 

After sunset we wander about the old streets, 

320 



SOTTTH ENG^LAND NOOKS 
where even the more modern buildings conform to 
the all-pervading air of antiquity. It is the close of 
the Saturday holiday and the main street is packed 
with a cheerful crowd of people of all degrees. 
Shop-keepers improve the opportunity to sell their 
wares and a lively trade is carried on at the open 
booths along the walks. One butcher is especially 
active in booming business, having a fellow in front 
of his place, a "barker," we would style him in the 
States, who bellows in a voice like a foghorn, 
**Lovely meat! the same that the king and nobility 
heats — lovely meat." Surely a recommendation 
that would shake the resolution of a confirmed vege- 
tarian. 

But we soon weary of the glare and noise of the 
crowded street. We wander into the crooked 
lanes that lead to the nooks and corners about the 
cathedral. We catch the towers from different view- 
points; as they stand, boldly outlined against an 
opalescent sky flecked with red-toned clouds, they 
form a fit study for the artist — and one of which the 
artist has often availed himself. The college court 
is full of shadows; how easy it would be to imagine 
a cowled figure stealing along in the dusk and pass- 
ing from sight in the Norman entrance yonder — than 
which there is no choicer bit of medieval architec- 
ture in the Kingdom. 

We have the whole of the following day to 
321 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

reach London; and what a superb day it is, the 
very essence of the beauty of English midsummer! 
We have been over the Rochester and Maidstone 
road before, so we take the narrow and hilly but 
marvelously picturesque highway that drops some 
fourteen miles straight southward. The country 
through which it passes is distinctly rural, with here 
and there a grove or a farmhouse. A little to one 
side is Petham, a quiet hamlet under gigantic trees, 
with a half-timbered inn seemingly out of all pro- 
portion to the possible needs of the place. The 
main road running from Hythe, near the coast, 
through Ashford to Tunbridge Wells, a distance of 
about fifty miles, is one of the finest in the Kingdom. 
It runs in broad, sweeping curves through a gently 
undulating country, and the grades are seldom 
enough to check the motor's flight. It had lately 
been re-surfaced and much of the way oiled or as- 
phalted, quite eliminating dust. We pass much 
charming country, wooded hills, stretches of meadow- 
land, fields of yellowing grains, and many sleepy vil- 
lages, all shimmering in the lucent air of a perfect 
summer day. The sky is as blue as one ever sees 
it in England, and a few silvery-white clouds drift 
lazily across it. It is what the natives call a very 
warm day, but it seems only balmy to us. 

Bethesden, Biddenden and Lamberhurst all 
attract our attention. The second has a very quaint 

322 



SOUTH ENGLAND NOOKS 

old inn on the market square, with a queer little ivy- 
covered tower; but Lamberhurst hardly merits the 
extravagant praise given it by William Cobbett in 
his "Rural Rides'* — "one of the most beautiful 
villages that man ever set eyes upon.*' Still, it may 
have altered somewhat since his time; there are few 
red-brick villas among the older cottages. It is, none 
the less, a pleasant place, rich with verdure and 
bright with flowers, and picturesquely situated on 
a gently rising hill. Coming on this road, one gets 
the best conception of the really magnificent situ- 
ation of Tunbridge Wells, and cannot wonder that 
it has gained such popularity. The main part of 
the town lies in a depression in the undulating downs, 
its villas, houses and streets all set down on a liberal 
scale with plenty of room for trees, in whose luxuri- 
ant foliage the place is half hidden. All around 
stretches the wavelike succession of the hills, diver- 
sified with forest and bright with heather and gorse. 
Thackeray was very fond of Tunbridge Wells and 
his enthusiastic words in "Round About Papers" 
breathe much of the spirit of the place: 

"I stroll over the common and survey the beauti- 
ful purple hills around, twinkling with a thousand 
bright villas which have sprung up over this charm- 
ing ground since first I saw it. What an admirable 
scene of peace and plenty! What a delicious air 
breathes over the heath, blows the cloud-shadows 

323 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

across it, and murmurs through the full-clad trees! 
Can the world show a land fairer, richer, more 
cheerful?" 

We pause at the excellent though rather unpre- 
tentious Grand Hotel for our late luncheon; and as 
a final adieu to the pleasant town, drive through 
its commons with their strange wind-worn stones, 
before setting out Londonward. We pass on into 
Sussex as far as Grinstead and there strike the direct 
London road through Epsom, where we have a 
glimpse of the famous racing downs. The quiet, 
staid-looking old town gives no hint of the furor 
that possesses it on Derby days. A few miles 
farther we enter the outskirts of London. 



324 



XVIII 

FROM DUBLIN TO CORK 

We are off for the Emerald Isle. There was 
much of interest in the three days between London 
and Dublin, but I will not follow our journey here; 
in a later chapter I will endeavor to gather some of 
the scattered threads. We reach Ludlow the first 
night, one hundred and forty-eight miles in six hours 
—very speedy going for us — but a day from Lud- 
low to Barmouth and another to Holyhead is more 
in keeping with our usual leisurely progress. 

One can never truly feel the plaintive sweetness 
of Lady Dufferin's song until with his own eyes he 
beholds the melancholy beauty of the "Sweet Bay 
of Dublin." We enter its gates in the opalescent 
light of a perfect morning. The purple mists hang- 
ing over the headlands are glowing with the first 
rays of the sun and the pale emerald waters flash into 
burnished gold as the low beams strike along their 
surface. 

The voyage has been an easy one; our tickets 
were purchased, our cabin reserved, and provision 
made for the transport of the motor, all in a few 
minutes at the office of the Royal Automobile Club 

325 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

in London, and the genial touring-secretary, Mr. 
Maroney, has supplied us with necessary maps and 
information. We have not long to wait at the pier; 
a swinging crane picks up the car from the boat 
and carefully deposits it on the pavement. A rail- 
way employee is at hand with a supply of petrol and 
we are soon ready for the road. The night voyage 
has been a comfortable one; we were able to go 
aboard at nine o'clock and take possession of our 
cabin, quite as large and well-appointed as those of 
the best ocean-going steamers, and breakfast was 
served on the ship. Altogether, nothing is easier 
than a trip to Ireland with a motor car if one only 
goes about it rightly. 

An unknown land lies before us. Much has 
been written of Ireland — ^books of travel, history, 
and fiction — and poets have sung her beauties and 
sorrows; we have read much of the Island, but noth- 
ing that has given us more than a hint of what we 
are about to see. To know Ireland, one must take 
a pilgrim's staff, as it were; he must study her ruins 
and ancient monuments, see her cities and her towns, 
her half-deserted villages, her wretched hovels and 
her lonely places, and above all, must meet and know 
her people; then, after all, he can only say to others, 
"If you wish to know the reality, go and do like- 



99 

Wise. 



Dublin is a handsomely built modern city of 

326 



FROM DUBLIN TO CORK 

three hundred thousand inhabitants and has an air 
of general prosperity. It has much of interest, but 
it does not rightly belong in this chronicle. The low 
hum of our motor calls us to the open road, the 
green fields, and the unfrequented villages. We 
are soon away on the Carlow road with Cork as 
our objective. 

The road out of Dublin is distressingly rough 
as compared with English highways, though it im- 
proves before we reach Naas. Our first impressions 
are distinctly melancholy; a "deserted village'* — a 
row of stone cottages, roofless, windowless, and with 
crumbling or fallen walls — speaks of Ireland's sor- 
rows more plainly than any words. And such sad 
reminders are not uncommon; wholly or partly 
ruined villages greet us every little while on the way. 

Naas, the first town of any size, is dirty and 
unattractive, but its historic importance ill accords 
with its present meanness. Its traditions are not 
antedated by any town in the Island; it was once 
the capital of the Leinster kings — half-clad savages, 
no doubt, but kings none the less. Cromwell thought 
it important enough to visit, and incidentally wiped 
its strong castle out of existence. Rory O'More a 
century later burned it to the ground, destroying 
some eight hundred houses — it has not so many now. 
Adjoining the town is the ruin of Jigginstown House, 
an unfinished palace begun on a vast scale by the 

327 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

Earl of Strafford, who expected to entertain Charles 
I. here; but Charles failed to arrive and the Earl had 
other matters — among them the loss of his head — 
to engage his attention. 

The road to the south of Naas lies in broad, 
straight stretches and the surface is better, but we 
found it almost deserted. This impressed us not a 
little. We ran many miles, meeting no one; there 
were few houses — only wide reaches of meadow- 
land with but few trees — and altogether the country 
seemed quite uninhabited. 

Carlow, scarce thirty miles from Naas, is rather 
above the average, though it has the bare appearance 
characteristic of the Irish town. We had been rather 
dreading the country-town hotels and here we had 
our first experience. The Club House — why so 
called we did not learn — is a building not unsightly 
inside, but on entering it is with difficulty we could 
find anyone to minister to our wants. Finally an 
untidy old man with bushy whiskers appeared and 
officiated as porter, chambermaid, and waiter. He 
was slow in performing his duties, but the luncheon 
was better than we had hoped for. He took our 
money when we left, but whether he was boots or 
proprietor, we never learned. 

Cromwell and Rory O'More paid their com- 
pliments to Carlow in the same emphatic manner 
as at Naas. There remains but little of the castle 

328 



FROM DUBLIN TO CORK 
excepting the huge round towers that flanked the 
entrance. Just out of the town is the largest of 
Ireland's cromlechs, a mighty rock weighing one 
hundred tons, supported on massive upright granite 
blocks. 

Kilkenny is twenty miles farther south. Its 
castle, the home of the Duke of Ormonde, is perhaps 
the most notable private residence in Ireland. It is 
of ancient origin, but its present state is due to modem 
restoration ; no longer is it a fortress, but a castellated 
mansion of great extent. It is situated on rising 
ground lying directly on the river. The front facade, 
flanked by two great circular towers, heavily mantled 
with ivy, presents a highly-imposing appearance. 
The most notable feature of the interior is the art 
gallery, which is declared to be one of the most 
important in the Kingdom. 

Kilkenny Cathedral is of great antiquity, having 
been begun early in the eleventh century. Close 
to it stands one of the round towers so characteristic 
of early Irish architecture. The town has a popu- 
lation of about ten thousand, and though apparently 
prosperous, there was everjrwhere evident the un- 
tidiness that was more or less typical of the southern 
Irish towns. 

Clonmel, however, easily ranked first in neat- 
ness and general up-to-date appearance among the 
towns we passed on our run to Cork. Here we 

329 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

came late in the evening, for we had missed our 
road and gone some miles out of the way. After 
leaving the vicinity of Dublin, signboards were not 
to be seen and it was easy to go astray. Houses 
were not frequent and often the natives could hardly 
give directions to the nearest town. Before we knew 
it we were entering Carrick-on-Suir, which we took 
for Clonmel. Something aroused our suspicions and 
we hailed a red-faced priest driving in a cart. The 
good father was much befuddled and his honest 
efforts afforded us little enlightenment, but we finally 
learned to our chagrin that Clonmel was about 
twenty miles to the west. 

Night was falling rapidly and the car leaped 
onward over a narrow, grass-grov^Ti byroad, passing 
here and there a farm cottage from which the in- 
mates rushed in open-mouthed surprise. We soon 
came into the main road and reached the town just 
at dark. The hotel proved quite comfortable, though 
distinctly Irish in many particulars; but perhaps our 
judgment as to what constitutes comfort in an inn 
was somewhat modified by the day's experiences; 
we were hardly so critical as we should have been 
across the channel. 

We had come to Clonmel solely to pass the 
night, since it was the only place where we might 
count on fair accommodations. We had gone some- 
what out of our way, for we must turn northward 

330 



FROM DUBLIN TO CORK 

for Cashel, whose cathedral is perhaps the most re- 
markable ruin in the Kingdom. It is nearly twenty 
miles from Clonmel, and the road is surprisingly 
good. 

We soon came in sight of the mighty rock 
which legend — ever busy in Ireland — declares was 
torn from the distant hills by the enraged devil and 
flung far out into the plain of Tipperary. When 
the fiend performed this wonderful feat, it perhaps 
did not occur to him that he was supplying a site 
for a church; but had he exercised moderate fore- 
sight he would have known that no such opportunity 
would be neglected by the cathedral builders. And 
so it chanced that more than a thousand years ago 
the fortified church that rears its vast granite bulk 
upon the rock was begun. It grew by various ac- 
cretions until it stood complete in the twelfth century. 
It has passed through fire and siege, but the massy 
walls are still as solid as the granite on which they 
stand. The roadway winds up the side of the rock 
and we are able to drive to the very entrance. A 
group of youngsters is awaiting us, and one unspeak- 
ably dirty and ragged little fellow volunteers to 
"watch the car." 

The custodian greets us at the gate, a keen old 
fellow, well posted in the history and tradition of 
his native land and speaking with little trace of 
brogue. He learns that we are from America; his 

331 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

brother is over there and doing well, as he reckons 
it, in that Eldorado of every Irishman forced to re- 
main at home. 

"O, yes! it is a great country, and hovv^ closely 
the old sod is bound to it; there is no house that 
you will pass in all your journeys that has not some- 
one there. It has been the one hope of my life to 
go to America, but it has slipped away from me. 
I am too old now and must die and be buried in 
Cashel." 

He said this with a look of sadness, which sud- 
denly forsook his face as he noted our interest in the 
ruin. It was the joy of his life to tell the story of 
its every nook and comer. 

We found a strange mixture of art and crudity; 
the square, unadorned lines of the walls and towers 
would not lead one to expect the exquisite artistic 
touches that are seen here and there. The great 
structure once served the purpose of a royal residence 
as well as a cathedral. The date of the stone-roofed 
chapel is placed at 1 127; that of the perfect round 
tower is unknown, though doubtless much earlier. 
The active history of the cathedral-fortress closed 
with its surrender to the forces of Cromwell, which 
was followed by the massacre of the garrison and 
dismantling of the buildings. 

Our guide urges us to ascend the tower — it is 

the day of all days to see the golden vale of Tip- 

332 



FROM DUBLIN TO CORK 

perary from such a viewpoint — and indeed the pros- 
pect proves an enchanting one. It is a perfect day 
and the emerald-green valley lies shimmering under 
the expanse of pale-blue sky. In the far distance on 
every hand are the purple outlines of the hills — they 
call them mountains in Ireland — and stretching away 
toward them the pleasant fields intersected by sinuous 
threads of country roads. The landscape is cut up 
into little patches by the stone fences and gleams 
with tiny whitewashed cottages. Flashing streams 
course through the valley and herds of cattle graze 
upon the luxuriant grasses. It is a scene of perfect 
peace, and though the lot of the people may be 
one of poverty, it is doubtless one of contentment. 
Right at the foot of the ruin-crowned rock lies the 
wretched little towTi, and on leaving the cathedral 
we stop in the market place. A busy scene greets 
our eyes; it is market day and the people of the 
surrounding country are thronging the streets. The 
market place is full of donkey carts and our car 
seems in strange company. Old crones with shawls 
thrown over their heads, barefooted and brovm as 
Indians, are selling gooseberries and cabbages. 
There appears to be little else in the market and 
business is far from brisk. . There are many husky 
farmers from the country and bright-looking young 

maidens that seem of a different race from the old 

333 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

market women. We see and hear much to interest 
us during our hour*s stop in Cashel. 

To one other Tipperary shrine we must make a 
pilgrimage — Holy Cross Abbey, which is only a 
few miles away. We see its low square tower just 
above the trees as we approach the town which 
bears the same name as the abbey, and we find the 
caretaker living in wretchedly dirty quarters in a part 
of the ruin. A genuine surprise awaits the visitor 
to Holy Cross Abbey. Like Cashel, its outlines 
give no hint of the superb and even delicate touches 
of art one will find about the ruin. Nothing of the 
kind could be more perfect than the east window, 
in which the stone tracery and slender mullions are 
quite intact, and there are other windows, doors 
and arches of artistic design and execution. The 
abbey stands on the banks of the Suir, and it is 
just across the shallow river that one gets the finest 
viewpoint. It took its name from the tradition that it 
once possessed a portion of the true cross which had 
been given it by Queen Eleanor of England, one of 
whose six sons was buried here. And thus it 
chances that a brother of Richard the Lion-Hearted 
sleeps amid the mouldering fragments of Holy Cross. 
The footprints of history cross and recross one an- 
other in these ancient shrines, and how often they 
bring remote sections of the Kingdom to common 
ground ! 

334 



FROM DUBLIN TO CORK 

Leaving Cashel on the main highway to Cork, 
we begin to verify the stories we have heard of the 
dreadful condition of much of the Irish roads. We 
have so far found them stony, rough and ill-kept in 
places, but on the whole fair to one who has had 
much experience with very bad roads. But we now 
come into a broad stone road that has been neglected 
for years, and words are quite inadequate to char- 
acterize it. It is a series of bumps and depressions 
over which the car bounces and jumps along, seem- 
ingly testing every bolt and rivet to the utmost. Any 
speed except one so slow as to be out of the ques- 
tion results in the most distressful jolting, to which 
there is not a moment's respite. A fine gray dust 
covers the road to a depth of two or three inches and 
rolls away from the wheels in dense clouds. There 
is considerable traffic and for several miles along one 
section are military barracks; the soldiers are maneu- 
vering on the road with cavalry and artillery. Some 
of the horses go wild at the car and it is only by 
great effort that the soldiers bring them under con- 
trol. But the dust they kick up! It hangs over 
the road like a fog and makes the sky seem a dull 
gray. It settles thickly over the car, almost stifling 
its occupants, for it is really warm. On we go — 
bounce, bump, half blinded and nearly choked. 
Why did we ever come to Erin, anyway? — ^we 
could have gotten this experience at less cost nearer 

335 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 
home. There are few towns on the road; Caher, 
Mitchelstown and Fermoy, all bald and untidy, are 
the only places of any size. We pass through the 
"mountains" for a considerable distance, but the 
wretched road and blinding dust distracts attention 
from the country, which in places is rather pretty. 
Our route is well away from the railroad and we see 
much of retired rural sections which would not be» 
easily accessible by other means of travel. The 
infrequent cottages are mean and dirty, but those 
we saw later were so much worse that the recollec- 
tion of the first is nearly effaced. 

Never did a hotel seem more inviting to us 
than did the Imperial at Cork. The car and every- 
thing about it is a dirty gray; one tire is flat, and 
has been — ^we don't know how long. But we are 
fortunate in our hotel and our troubles are soon for- 
gotten. Our room is an immense high-ceilinged 
apartment with massive furniture and a vast deal of 
bric-a-brac, including a plaster bust of Washington. 
There are plenty of settees and easy chairs — things 
uncommon enough in hotels to merit special men- 
tion. We have an excellent dinner served just to 
suit, and the experiences of the day soon begin to 
appear in a different light than they did when we 

were undergoing them. We are soon in the ample 

336 



FROM DUBLIN TO CORK 
tall-posted beds, clean and unspeakably comfortable, 
and our sleep is too deep to even dream of Irish roads 
and motor cars. 



387 



XIX 

THROUGH SOUTHERN IRELAND 

Cork is the gateway by which a large number 
of visitors enter Ireland, and is pretty sure to be on 
the route of anyone making a tour of the Island. It 
manifestly has no place in this record, nor has Blar- 
ney Castle, the most famous ruin in the world — 
among Americans, at least. And yet, who could 
write of an Irish tour and make no reference to 
Blarney. We may be pardoned for a hasty glance 
at our visit to the castle on the day after our ar- 
rival at Cork. 

The head porter at the Imperial, clad in his 
faultless moss-green uniform, the stateliest and clear- 
ly the most important man in the hotel, marshals 
his assistants and they strap our luggage to the car — 
he does no work himself, nor would anyone be so 
presumptuous as to expect it of a man of such mighty 
presence. We recognize the fact that his fee must 
be in proportion to his dignity, and he receives it 
much as his forefathers, the ancient Irish kings, ex- 
acted tribute from their vassals. He is not content 
to have us take the direct route to Blarney, only five 

or six miles, but tells us of a longer but more pic- 

838 



THROUGH SOUTHERN IRELAND 

turesque route and gives us a rather confusing lot of 
directions, which we have some little difficulty in 
following. Suffice it to say that after a deal of in- 
quiry and much wandering through steep stony lanes 
— an aggregate of more than fifteen miles out of our 
way — we catch sight of the square-topped tower of 
Blarney and hear the shouts and laughter of a train- 
load of excursionists who are just arriving. 

Though annoying at the time, we now have 
no regret for the many miles we went astray ; we saw 
much of rural life along these lonely little lanes. We 
passed tiny huts as wretched as any we saw in Ire- 
land, which is to say they were wretched beyond de- 
scription; but in them were cheery, good-natured 
people whose efforts to tell us the way to Blarney 
only got us farther from it. 

Blarney Castle to some extent deserves the en- 
comiums that have been so lavishly heaped upon it. 
It is the one place in Ireland that every tourist is ex- 
pected to see; and its fame is probably due more 
to its mythical Blarney stone than to its historical 
importance. As we saw it on a perfect summer 
day, the great square tower with overhanging bat- 
tlements rising out of the dense emerald foliage and 
darkly outlined against the bluest of Irish skies, it 
seemed to breathe the very spirit of chivalry, but a 
rude, barbarous chivalry, for all that. From the 
tower, which we ascended by ruinous and difficult 

339 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

stairs, the view was magnificent, though the groves, 
famous in song and story, have been largely felled. 
And after all. Blarney seems rather "blase'* on 
close acquaintance, with its throngs of trippers and 
souvenir hawkers at every turn. Even the Blarney 
stone is a sham, a new one having been placed in a 
rebuilt portion of the wall knocked down by Crom- 
well's cannon; the original is said to be quite inac- 
cessible. 

During the afternoon we follow the valley of 
the Lee over a road that averages fairly good and 
that seldom takes us out of sight of the river. In 
many places it ascends the rugged hills and affords a 
far-reaching prospect over the valley. At Macroom, 
the only town of any size, the road branches; one 
may cross the hills and reach Killarney in only twen- 
ty miles or may follow the coast along Kenmare 
River and Dingle Bay, a total of about one hundred 
and twenty miles. While we pause in the village 
street, a respectable-looking citizen, divining the 
cause of our hesitation, approaches us. He urges 
us to take the coast route, for there is nothing finer 
in Ireland. We can heartily second his enthusiastic 
claims, but would go farther — there is nothing finer 
in the world. 

The Eccles Hotel is a rambling old house, 

situated at the head of Bantry Bay on Glengariff 

Harbor. It stands beneath the sharply rising hill 

340 



THROUGH SOUTHERN IREiLAND 

and only the highway lies between it and the water's 
edge; the outlook from its veranda is not surpassed 
by any we saw in the Kingdom, not even by the 
enchanting harbor of Oban or the glorious surround- 
ings of Tintagel. True, we saw it at its best, just 
as the sun was setting and transforming the blue 
waters into a sheet of burnished gold. As far as 
the eye can reach the long inlet lies between bare 
granite headlands, interspersed here and there with 
verdant banks, while the bright waters were dotted 
with wooded islets. The sun sank beneath the 
horizon, purple shadows gathered in the distance, 
and the harbor gleamed mirrorlike in the twilight. 
An old coast-defense castle, standing on a headland 
near the entrance, lent the needed touch of human 
interest to the scene. Well might Thackeray ex- 
claim, "Were such a bay lying upon English shores 
it would be a world's wonder. Perhaps if it were 
on the Mediterranean or Baltic, English travellers 
would flock to it by the hundreds. Why not come 
and see it in Ireland?" Indeed, more are coming 
to see it today; the hotel was crowded almost to 
our exclusion and we had to take what was left. 
The motor is bringing many, for it is more than ten 
miles from Bantry, the nearest railway station, and 
is not easily accessible to travelers whose time is 
somewhat limited. 

Our route from Glengariff leads directly over 
341 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

the hills to Kenmare. The ascent is steep in places 
and a long tunnel pierces the crest of the hill. We 
see much weather-beaten country, stretches of pur- 
ple granite boulders devoid of vegetation and bleak 
beyond description. From the sununit of the hills 
we glide down a winding and stony road into Ken- 
mare, passing with considerable difficulty many 
coaches loaded with trippers, for this is a favorite 
coaching route. 

Someone has said that Ireland is like an ugly 
picture set in a beautiful frame. We may dissent 
from the view that the interior is ugly ; we have seen 
much charming country, though on the whole not 
the equal of England or Scotland. The vast peat 
bogs are dreary, the meadowlands monotonous, the 
villages, if interesting, far from beautiful, and the de- 
tached cottages often positively painful in their filth 
and squalor. But the frame of the picture — the 
glorious coast line — surely, mile for mile, its equal 
may hardly be found on the globe. One will be- 
hold every mood of sea and shore and sky; beauty 
and grandeur combined and every range of coloring, 
from the lucent gold of the sunset and the deep blue 
stillness of the summer noonday to the gray mono- 
tone of the storm-swept granite waste. 

Out of Kenmare, we follow the wide estuary 
of the river, leaving it only when the road sweeps 
a few miles inland to the village of Sneem. And we 

342 



THROUGH SOUTHERN IRELAND 

behold this Sneem in astonishment; we have seen 
nothing so primitive and poverty-stricken since we 
landed in Ireland, nor do we see anything later that 
may match it in apparent wretchedness. Two or 
three long rows of low thatched-covered cottages — 
the thatch green with weeds — of one or two rooms 
each, with sagging doors and tiny windows, make 
up the village. The interior of the huts is the plain- 
est imaginable; earthen floors, rough stone walls and 
open roof under the rotting thatch. The cottages 
surround a weed-grown common where the domes- 
tic animals roam at will. A native approaches us, 
a man of fair intelligence, who talks freely of the 
wretched condition of the people. All who were 
able to get away have gone to America ; only the old, 
the desperately poor, and the incompetent remain, 
and what can one expect under such conditions? 
Many eke out their existence on the money that 
comes from over the sea. There is no use trying 
to improve the situation; if anyone has any ambition, 
there is no chance for him in Ireland, and the speaker 
illustrates with concrete instances. No doubt Sneem 
is typical of many retired villages. It is twenty-five 
miles to the nearest railroad, and to see this phase of 
Ireland the motor is indispensible. 

The road soon takes us again to the estuary of 
the Kenmare, following it to the extreme western 
point of Kerry, with views of river and ocean on 

343 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

one hand and the stem gremite hills on the other. 
Cahersiveen is the terminus of the railway and fam- 
ous in Ireland as the birthplace of Daniel O'Connell. 
A memorial chapel of gray grainite overshadows 
everything else in the village, which, mean and dirty 
as it is, looks live and prosperous to one coming 
from Sneem. Just out of the town is the ivy-cov- 
ered ruin of Carhan House, where O'Connell was 
bom. 

I would that the language were mine to even 
faintly portray the transcendent beauty of Dingle 
Bay, along which we course most of the afternoon. 
The day is serenely perfect and the sky is clear 
save for a few fleecy clouds that drift lazily along the 
horizon. Our road climbs the hills fronting on the 
bay — in places the water lies almost sheer beneath 
us — and the panorama that lies before us is like a 
fairyland. Of the deepest liquid blue imaginable, 
the still water stretches out to the hills beyond the 
bay, which fade away, range after range, into the 
dun and purple haze of the distance; in places their 
tops are swept by low-hung clouds of dazzling 
whiteness — an effect of light and color indescribably 
glorious. We have seen the Scotch, Swiss and 
Italian lakes, and, second to none of them, our own 
Lake George, but among them all there is no match 
for this splendid ocean inlet on such a day as this. 
And truly, the day is the secret of the beauty; the 

344 



THROUGH SOUTHERN IRELAND 
color and the distant hills vanish in the gray mists 
that so often envelop the Irish coast. 

It is a jar to one*s sensibilities to pass from 
such lofty and inspiring scenes into Killorglin, the 
shabbiest, filthiest, most utterly devil-may-care vil- 
lage we see in the Island. It does not show the al- 
most picturesque poverty of Sneem, but for sheer 
neglect and utter lack of anything in the nature of 
civic pride, we must give Killorglin the supremacy 
among numerous competitors for the honor — or rath- 
er, dishonor. The market square is covered with 
masses of loose stone intermingled with filth; the 
odors are what might be expected from the general 
condition of the town. There is little temptation to 
linger here, and we make hasty inquiries for the Kil- 
larney road. It proves dreadfully rough and stony, 
a broad and apparently once excellent highway, but 
now quite neglected. There is nothing to detain us 
on the way and we soon turn into the grounds of the 
Victoria Hotel just before we reach Killarney. 

The Victoria, fronting on the lake, is most pre- 
tentious, but there are many little signs of the laxity 
and untidiness that is seen everywhere in Ireland. 
We wait long for a porter to remove the luggage 
from the car, and finally begin the task ourselves, 
when the porter appears and takes our chaffing good- 
naturedly. An old lame crow — he has been a hang- 
er-on at the Victoria for fifteen years, the porter says, 

345 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

and comes regularly to the kitchen yard for food — 
clings to a chimney pot and pours out his harsh gut- 
tural jargon. 

"Swearing at us, isn't he?" we remark. 

"Not at all,** answers the ready-witted son of 
Erin. "That*s just his way of expressin* his pleas- 
ure at your arrival." 

The Royal Victoria boasts of even a more as- 
tonishing array of distinguished and royal guests 
than the Royal Bath at Bournemouth — both have 
surely earned the prefix to their names. In the draw- 
ing-rooms were posted letters and autographs of roy- 
alty from King Edward (as Prince of Wales) down 
to ordinary lords and ladies; and there were also 
letters from other guests of distinction, including well- 
known Americans. All of which only partially 
atoned for the rather slack service which we found in 
many particulars. Still, the Royal Victoria suffered 
from no lack of patronage; we had telegraphed the 
day before and yet with difficulty were able to se- 
cure satisfactory accommodations. 

I will not write of Killarney*s "Lakes and 
Fells,'* pre-eminently the tourist center of Ireland. 
The drive to Muckross Abbey and along the shores 
of the lake is one of surpassing beauty, though the 
road is narrow and crooked. Much of the drive is 

through the private grounds of Lord Ardilaun, the 

346 



THROUGH SOUTHERN IRELAND 

poetical title which has been accorded to Mr. Guin- 
ness, whose "stout" has given him a wider and more 
substantial fame than he can ever hope for from a 
mere title of nobility. However, the famous pro- 
duct is responsible for the title, since the wealthy 
brewer was elevated to the peerage ostensibly on ac- 
count of his immense benefactions to the city of Dub- 
lin. His Killarney house — one of several he owns in 
Ireland — a modern mansion in the Elizabethan style, 
may be plainly seen from the road. And one can 
hardly wonder that Lord Ardilaun has thriven great- 
ly and built up what is freely advertised as the larg- 
est brewery in the world, when he has such an un- 
limited market for his product right at home — for 
Ireland is cursed with drink perhaps beyond any 
country on earth. Fortunately there is now a 
marked tendency toward improvement and the Cath- 
olic church is exerting a strong influence against the 
drink evil. 

But these reflections are not altogether germane 
to the transcendent lake whose bright waters shim- 
mer through the trees or ripple gently on some open 
beach as we course along them. Out beyond lie the 
mountains against the pale sapphire sky of a perfect 
summer morning, and the lake makes a glorious mir- 
ror for its wooded islands and encircling hills. We 
jpass the "meeting of the waters," crossing a rustic 
bridge over the narrow strait. Altogether, there is 

347 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

a succession of delightful scenery, which the motor 
car affords the ideal means of seeing. 

But I am poorly carrying out my resolution not 
to write of Killarney, though surely the theme tempts 
one to linger; there is much I have not even hinted 
at; Ross Castle and Muckross Abbey alone might 
occupy many pages were I competent to fill them. 
But we will leave them all, though we must pause 
a moment in the town itself, surely a paradise for 
lovers of Irish laces and for seekers after trinkets and 
souvenirs galore. It is rather cleaner and more sub- 
stantial than the average small Irish town, yet Kil- 
larney and its environs have all the earmarks of a 
tourist-thronged resort and in this particular, at least, 
are disappointing. While there is much of beauty 
and interest, we cannot help a feeling as we leave the 
town behind us that some of the encomiums may 
have been a little over-enthusiastic. 

But Killarney rapidly recedes as we hasten to- 
ward Tralee through a country whose bleak hill- 
ranges alternate with still drearier peat bogs, often 
of great extent. Everywhere one sees piles of cut 
and dried peat, the almost universal fuel in Ireland. 
Its use is evidenced by the thin blue smoke curling 
from the rude chimneys and by the pungent odor 
as it falls to the earth under the lowering sky. For 
the sky has become overcast and gray. We have 
had — ^very unusual, too, they tell us — several days 

348 



THROUGH SOUTHERN IRELAND 

of perfect weather; the rule is almost daily showers 
in Ireland during the summer. 

We find Tralee a large, lively town; it is mar- 
ket day and the narrow main street is fairly blocked 
with donkey-carts, driven by screaming old women, 
and the heavier, more unwieldy carts of the farmers. 
The old women often go into a panic at the sight 
of the motor, and grasp the donkeys by the bridle as 
though these sleepy little brutes might be expected 
to exhibit all the fire of a skittish horse; but never 
one of them even lifts his lazy ears as the motor hums 
under his nose. It is different with some of the 
horses, which become unmanageable and swing the 
heavy carts around in spite of all the drivers can do. 
And woe to the motorist who should try conclusions 
with one of these carts that may be suddenly thrown 
across his way. The wreck of the car would be 
almost certain and I doubt if the cart would suffer 
at all. These vehicles are primitive in the extreme; 
two massive wheels, an oaken beam axle and two 
shafts made of heavy timbers, is about all there is 
to one of them. It is with such vehicles that Tralee 
swarms and our progress to the market square is 
slow indeed. In the midst of the market place 
stands a monument surmounted by the figure of a 
peasant soldier, the inscriptions commemorating the 
Irish patriots of '98, '03, '48 and '67, and declar- 
ing the "undying allegiance of the Irish people to 

349 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

republican principles.*' The hotel where we stop 
for luncheon is a large limestone building, just op- 
posite the monument. It is fairly clean and the ser- 
vice cannot be complained of; Irish hotels have av- 
eraged better than we had been led to expect. 

From Tralee we take a rough, neglected road 
to Tarbert-on-Shannon, running through a desolate 
hill country — the Stacks Mountains, as they appear 
to Irish eyes — almost devoid of trees, with mean and 
often unspeakably filthy huts at long intervals. Most 
of these huts have but two small rooms; in one the 
domestic animals — the horse, donkey or cow, with 
a pig or two squealing under foot — and in the other 
the family. One is quite as clean and comfortable 
as the other. The muck-heap is squarely in front 
of the door; it would be too much trouble to put 
it to the rear, and it is probably cleared away once 
or twice a year. But withal, the people are prob- 
ably happier than the nobles in their castles ; a merry, 
laughing, quick-witted folk who greet us with good- 
natured shouts of welcome — there is no prejudice 
against the motor here. The cheeriness of the peopI»» 
contrasts with the bleak and depressing country it- 
self, today wrapped in a gray mist that half ob- 
scures the view. 

As we passed through one of the bogs, an in- 
cident occurred that added to the gloom of the day, 
and the poverty of the country still leaves a somber 

350 



THROUGH SOUTHERN IREiLAND 

impression on our minds. It was a peasant funeral 
procession, forty or fifty of the rude carts such as we 
have described wending their way along the wretched 
road. The plain pine coffin, fastened with knotted 
hempen ropes, was borne on a cart similar to the 
others, and yet the deceased was evidently a person 
of importance, indicated by the large following and 
several priests in the center of the procession. As we 
came up they motioned us to pass, and our car crept 
by as stealthily as possible, though not without dis- 
turbing some of the horses. All treated it with good- 
natured solemnity and many saluted us as we passed. 
Farther along the road we saw many people at the 
cottages in readiness to join the procession when it 
reached them. The incident could not but impress 
us with the poverty and really primitive character of 
the Irish peasants of the inland hills — people and a 
country quite unknown to those who follow the or- 
dinary routes of travel. 

Listowel is twenty miles from Tralee, a dilap- 
idated hamlet surrounding a great gloomy-looking 
church, and above it the shattered towers of the 
ever-present castle peeping out of a mass of ivy. 
Ten miles farther over a rough road and we enter 
Tarbert on a fine wooded headland overlooking the 
lordly Shannon — truly worthy of such title here — a 
sweeping river two or three miles in width. For' 
twenty miles or more our road closely follows the 

351 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

southern shore of the broad estuary, and we realize 
keenly how much of color and distance one loses 
when the gray rain obscures the landscape. The 
estuary of the Shannon might well vie with Dingle 
Bay under conditions similar to those of the preced- 
ing day, but we see only a leaden sheet of water 
fading away in the htful showers or lying sullenly 
under the dim outlines of the coast of County Clare. 
At Glin we pass beneath the ancient stronghold 
of the "Knight of Glin," which recalls the splendor 
of a feudal potentate who in Queen Elizabeth's time 
was lord of an estate of six hundred thousand acres, 
and whose personal train included five hundred gen- 
tlemen. So much glory and an Irish tendency to 
take a hand in the frequent broils in the west, brought 
the English Lord President of Ireland with a strong 
besieging force. TTie defense was desperate in the 
extreme. The young son of the lord of the castle was 
captured by the besiegers and placed in a post of 
great danger in hope of checking the fire of the gar- 
rison; but the ruse had no effect on the furious Irish- 
men in the fortress. When at last a breach had been 
made by a heavy cannonade and the fall of the 
castle became inevitable, the few remaining defend- 
ers, uttering the ancient warcry of their house, flung 
themselves from the shattered battlements into the 
river. After a lapse of more than three hundred 
years, one may still see the marks of the cannon-shot 

S52 



THROUGH SOUTHERN IRELAND 

upon the heavy walls. And this weird story of 
the defense of Glin Castle is typical of tales that may 
be told of hundreds of the mouldering ruins of Ire- 
land. 

At Foynes the river broadens still more; "the 
spacious Shenan, spreading like a sea," was how it 
impressed Edmund Spenser, who has left in his 
poems many traces of his Irish wanderings. But we 
see little of it in the increasing drizzle that envelops 
it. Our road turns farther inland to Askeaton, a 
bedraggled collection of little huts, beneath the lord- 
ly ruin of Desmond Castle. There is little else to 
engage us on our way to Limerick, though we pass 
through the Vale of Adare, of which the bard has 
so musically sung : 

**0 sweet Adare, O lovely vale, 
O safe retreat of sylvan splendor; 
Nor summer sun nor morning gale 

E*er hailed a scene so sweetly tender.'* 

But it is not so sweetly tender on a dark drizzly 
evening, and we rush on through the rain to the 
shelter of an old-time hostelry in Limerick. 

Cruise's Royal is a large plain building per- 
haps a century or two old and quite unpretentious 
and comfortable. Limerick is not frequented by 
tourists and little special provision has been made 
to entertain them. It is a city of nearly fifty thous- 

353 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

and people and has large business interests in differ- 
ent lines. But Limerick has a past, despite its mod- 
em activity. Its castle, standing directly on the 
Shannon, was built by King John in 1205, and the 
seven original circular towers are still intact. The 
cathedral of St. Mary's is even older than the castle, 
and though restored, many touches of antiquity still 
remain. The Roman Catholic cathedral of St. 
John's is one of the finest modern churches in Ire- 
land, its splendid spire rising to a height of three 
hundred feet. Its magnificence ill accords with 
the wretched hovels that crowd around it; for the 
Irish Catholic seems to take far more pride in his 
church than in his own home. There is a large 
percentage of English among the inhabitants of Lim- 
erick, which is no doubt a factor in its business pro- 
gressiveness. The shops which we visited would 
compare favorably with those of a city of the same 
size almost anywhere. One of the staple products 
is Limerick lace and it is sold here at prices so low, 
compared with the tourist towns, as to quite as- 
tonish one. 

But the chief glory of Limerick is its broad riv- 
er, so vast and so cleansed by the sea tide as to 
show little trace of pollution, even in the city limits. 
It is spanned by two fine bridges, that nearest the 
castle replacing one built by King John. At the 
west end of this bridge is the famous "Stone of 

354 



THROUGH SOUTHERN IREiLAND 

the Violated Treaty," mounted on a properly in- 
scribed pedestal. The treaty with William and 
Mary was signed on this stone, but the English 
Parliament repudiated the agreement, and hence the 
name. 

In leaving Limerick, we closely followed the 
Shannon, and a magnificent stream it is, lying in 
wide, lakelike stretches and rippling gently in the 
fresh sea breeze. The valley here is quite level and 
covered with emerald verdure to the very banks, be- 
tween which the river flashes in gemlike brilliancy. 
It would be a joy to follow the Shannon and the 
loughs, in which it rests itself at frequent intervals, 
to its very source, every mile rich in historic interest 
and storied ruins; but we may go no farther than 
Killaloe, at the southern end of Lough Derg, about 
fifteen miles from Limerick. Here is a venerable 
cathedral church, built about 1 1 50, upon the site 
of a still older church founded in the sixth century. 
And it is to this latter time that most authorities 
refer the stone-roofed chapel or oratory standing near 
the cathedral. Legend has it that this was built 
by St. Flannan, who founded the original cathedral; 
and certain it is that its antiquity is very great. One 
experiences strange sensations as he stands in this 
rude, unfurnished little structure. It forcefully brings 
to him the fact that Christianity and learning are 
older in Ireland than in England and Scotland; thai 

355 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

this chapel was probably built before St. Augustine 
landed in Kent; that it was from Ireland that Chris- 
tian missionaries sailed to teach the savage Britons 
and marauding Picts. 

We cross the river over a high-arched bridge, 
near which is an attractive new hotel, for tourists and 
fishermen are learning of the beauties of the Shan- 
non and Lough Derg. We soon reach Nenagh on 
the Dublin road, and the graceful church spire at 
once attracts our attention. We can scarce forbear 
an exclamation of surprise as we come into full view 
of the splendid structure, just from the builder's 
hand. It is truly a poem in gray stone, as fine an 
example of gothic architecture as we have seen in 
the Kingdom — proof that the spirit of the old ca- 
thedral builders lingers still, at least in Ireland. A 
young man approaches us as we stand in the church- 
yard and informs us that the church has just been 
completed at a cost of fifty thousand pounds. We 
should have guessed much more, but labor and stone 
are cheap in Ireland; such a structure could hardly 
have been erected in America for less than half a 
million dollars. 

"And where did all the money come from?" 
for Nenagh shows little evidence of wealth. 

**0, they have been long in raising it and much 
of it came from America." 

356 




ANCIENT ORATORY, KILLALOE. 



THROUGH SOUTHERN IRELAND 

The church inside is hardly in keeping with 
the exterior, but this will no doubt be remedied in 
time. At the door is a table covered with pamphlets, 
with a notice requesting the visitor to place a penny 
in the box for each copy taken. We noted the titles 
of several: "Health and Cleanliness in Irish 
Homes,*' "Temperance Catechism, Showing the 
Evils of Drink," "Ireland, the Teacher of England 
and Scotland," "The Evils of Emigration," (in 
which no very glowing picture of the prospects of 
the emigrant in America is shown), and many others 
on Irish history and Catholic heroes. Nearly all of 
the dozen booklets which we select are really ex- 
cellent and show that the Catholic Church in Ireland 
is awakening to the necessities of modern conditions. 

From the church our guide led us to the castle 
near at hand and secured the key. There is little 
left save the stupendous keep, a circular tower about 
one hundred feet high and perhaps sixty feet in di- 
ameter. The walls at the bottom have the amaz- 
ing thickness of eighteen feet and one would reckon 
this mighty tower as well-nigh impregnable. 

"Destroyed by Cromwell," said our guide, 
**who burned the castle and razed it to the ground." 

Just as we are about to leave a very recently 
acquired distinction of Nenagh occurs to our guide 
— the town is the home of the grandfather of Hayes, 
the American runner who won the Marathon race 

357 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

at London. The old man keeps a baker shop down 
the street and the hero is here even now — a two- 
fold hero, indeed, as an Irishman by descent and as 
a winner over the English contestants. We pause 
at the little shop, but the hero is out and we have to 
be content with a few purchases. We find some 
difficulty in getting out of the town, but after much 
inquiry a policeman starts us on the Dublin road. 

And here I might speak a word of the Irish 
policeman. As in England, he is ever)rwhere and 
always ready with information; no matter how dirty 
and squalid the surroundings, he is neat, in a fault- 
less moss-green uniform emblazoned with the gold 
harp of Erin. He is always conscious of his dignity 
as the representative of law and order, and one can 
easily imagine that his presence must have a calming 
effect on the proverbial Irish tendency for a row. 
He is indeed a worthy part of the unequaled police 
system of the United Kingdom. 

TTie road which we now followed runs through 
the very heart of the Island, a distance of one hun- 
dred miles from Nenagh to Dublin. It is in the 
main a broad, well-surfaced highway with even 
grades and slight curves. It passes through a much 
better and more prosperous-looking country than the 
extreme southern portion of the Island. The farm 
cottages are better and apparently cleanlier, but the 
towns show little improvement. Nearly all of them 

358 



THROUGH SOUTHERN IRELAND 

are poor and mean-looking, with aged, weather- 
beaten buildings and many tumble-down houses. 
They are a good distance apart; Roscrea, Mount- 
rath, Maryborough, Kildare and Naas are the larger 
places on the road. Only two call for especial men- 
tion — one for its dilapidation and filthiness and the 
other for rather the opposite qualities. The first dis- 
tinction we may freely accord to Maryborough, the 
county town of Queens County, with a population 
of about three thousand. Perhaps we saw it at its 
worst, for it was the weekly market day. The mark- 
et place was blocked with live stock, and it was 
with difficulty that we forced the car through the 
seething mass. The streets were covered with loose 
stones, straw and filth, and on the sidewalks, little 
pens were fenced off and filled with calves and hogs. 
The farmers circulated among the animals and re- 
garded us rather sullenly for Irishmen. Our lun- 
cheon hour was past and we looked dubiously to- 
ward the Maryborough hotel. A native, divining 
our situation, cast a disgusted glance at the wretched 
surroundings and said, "You had better go on to 
Kildare; you will find it much better.'* 

We thank him and the car spurns the dirt of 
Maryborough under her wheels as she springs for- 
ward on the twenty miles of fine road to Kildare. 
We find this town small and rather poor, but far 
cleanlier than its neighbor. It has an ancient cathe- 

359 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

dral church and one of the most notable of the round 
towers, one hundred and five feet high, though some- 
what spoiled by a modern battlemented effect in 
place of the usual conical top. But the joy of Kil- 
dare is its hotel, a new, bright-looking brick struc- 
ture, delightfully pleasant and homelike inside. 
There is a piano in the parlor and fresh flowers on 
the mantelpiece. Our tea is soon ready in the dining- 
room, as cleanly and well ordered as the best across 
the Channel, and the neat waiter girls serve us 
promptly. Of course there is a secret somewhere to 
all this wonder, and we fathom it when we learn that 
the railroad owns the hotel. May the railroads build 
more hotels in Ireland ! 

At Newbridge, a few miles farther, are exten- 
sive barracks, a city of red brick, where a large body 
of Irish troops is quartered. Military life appeals to 
a great number of Irishmen and some of the crack 
British regiments are recruited in the Island. The 
Irishman may justly be proud of his reputation as a 
fighting man and he never wearies of telling you of 
the nativity of the Duke of Wellington and of Lord 
Roberts, the present chief of the British army. A 
fine racing course also lies between Newbridge and 
Kildare, and races famous throughout the country 
are held here annually. 

Our Irish pilgrimage is at an end; we leave 
Dublin on the following day, not without reluctance 

360 



THROUGH SOUTHERN IRELAND 

and regret. This Ireland is very old and very in- 
teresting, and it is with a feeling of distinct sadness 
that we watch her lessening shores. We find our- 
selves secretly hoping to come again some day with 
out trusty companion of the winged wheels, to spend 
a whole summer among the hills and dales, the rivers 
and loughs of the "Ould Countree." 



hi; I 



XX 

SOME ODDS AND ENDS 

Holyhead is an inconsequential town whose 
chief end is to serve as a port of departure for Ire- 
land. Were it not for this useful purpose, few tour- 
ists would ever see it — or the Isle of Anglesea, for 
that matter. Aside from some fine coast scenery 
and the castle, now very ruinous, built by Ed- 
ward I. at Beaumaris, Anglesea offers little 
in the way of attractions. The island is rather 
barren, with here and there a mean-looking village 
with a long, unpronounceable Welsh name. The 
main road from the great suspension bridge over the 
Menai Strait to Holyhead is excellent, but nearly all 
others in the island are so bad as to discourage mo- 
torists. 

The Station Hotel at Holyhead is owned by 
the Northwestern Railway, and would be credit- 
able to a city of one hundred thousand. It affords 
every comfort to its guests, and the railway people 
have made special provisions for the motor car, 
among these one of the best-equipped garages that 
I saw anywhere. The motor is becoming a serious 

rival to the railway in Britain, the heavy reduction 

362 



SOME ODDS AND ENDS 

in first-class passenger travel being attributed to the 
popularity of the horseless carriage; but the situa- 
tion has been accepted by the companies which own 
hotels and they have generally provided first-class ac- 
commodation for cars belonging to their guests. 

In a previous chapter I referred to our run from 
London to Holyhead, reaching Ludlow the first 
night. I am going to have my say about Ludlow in 
another chapter; for five visits on different occa- 
sions to the delightful old border town should per- 
haps entitle me, though a stranger to its people, to 
record my impressions of it somewhat in detail. 

Bishop's Castle marked our entrance into the hill 
country of Northern Wales. It is a lonely town fol- 
lowing a steep, roughly-paved main street, at the 
top of which we stop for luncheon at an old-fash- 
ioned but very pleasant country inn. From Bishop's 
Castle to Barmouth by the way of Welshpool, Llan- 
fair, Dinas Mawddwy and Dolgelley, we pass 
through the very heart of North Wales and see many 
phases of its beauty, though generally in the wilder 
and sterner moods. The hills are often steep, but 
from their crests we have far-reaching views over 
the wooded vales and green hill ranges. In places 
we wind through tangled forests or run along the 
banks of swift little rivers. At Dinas Mawddwy we 
enter the Welsh mountains, the most imposing hills 
in Britain. The tiny village nestling beside its rip- 

363 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

pling river seems lost in the mighty hills that over- 
hang it on every side, rugged and almost precipitous, 
yet velvety green to their very summits. We be- 
gin our climb out of the valley over the Bwlch 
Ooeddrws Pass — the name is even more alarming 
than the heavy grade shovs^n in the road book — and 
for three miles we climb steadily up the mighty hill 
alongside an incline that drops sharply to the roar- 
ing stream far below. From the summit a grand 
prospect greets our eyes: the wild, broken, intensely 
green Welsh hills stretching away range after range 
until they fade in the purple shadows of the distance, 
and yet higher above us looms the crest of Cader 
Idris, on which still linger flecks of snow. After a 
short pause to contemplate the beauty of the scene, 
we plunge down the descent, steep, sinuous and 
rough, to Dolgelley, lying at the foot of the hill, a 
retired little town with a long history; for here the 
Welsh hero, Owen Glendwr, held his parliaments 
and made a rallying point for his adherents in North 
Wales. Today its old-time, gray-stone, slate-roofed 
houses are hemmed in by more modern villas such 
as one now finds in most of the beauty spots of 
northern Wales. 

The ten miles of road to Barmouth follows 
the estuary of the river with only moderate grades un- 
til it reaches the town, when it plunges down the 
long hill to the seashore. Barmouth, or, as the 

364 



SOME ODDS AND ENDS 

Welsh style it, Abermaw, is a quiet watering-place 
lying along a narrow beach at the foot of the hills 
that rise almost sheer behind the town. The coast 
line of the wide rock-bound harbor is wild and bro- 
ken, and the view over the estuary at sunset is an 
enchanting one. The hotels are rather small and 
the beginning of the crowded season is just at hand. 
Should one wish to remain for a time in Barmouth 
to explore some of the grandest scenery in Wales, 
he would be more at ease in May or June. 

As we leave the town an obliging garage man 
hails us and warns us to beware of Llanaber, two 
or three miles to the north; a trap for motorists has 
been set there, and as if to convince us that wealth 
and station will not protect us, he adds in a rather 
awe-stricken manner that Her Grace the Duchess 
of W — , wife of the richest nobleman in the King- 
dom, was stopped last week and fined ten pounds. 
We feel that a contribution to the exchequer of Llan- 
aber would hardly come so easy from us as from the 
wealthy duchess, and we pass through the wretched 
little hamlet at a most respectful pace. The rain 
has begun to fall heavily and has apparently damp- 
ened the ardor of the Welsh constables, for we see 
nothing of them. The road continues many miles 
between the mountain slope and the low green 
marshes stretching seaward, but the driving rain ob- 
scures the view. At only one point does the ocean 

365 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

lash the rocks directly beneath us; elsewhere sJong 
the coast the road is separated from the sea by 
marshes and stretches of sandy beach, varying from 
a few hundred feet to two miles in width. 

Suddenly the gray bulk of Harlech Castle, 
standing on its conmianding eminence, four square 
to all the winds of heaven, looms up grim and vast 
in the gusty rain. It is the last of the great feudal 
castles of Britain that we are to see on our pilgrimage 
— save some of those we have seen before — and it 
marks a fitting close to the long list that we have 
visited — ^nearly every one of importance in the Island. 

Harlech is one of the seven great castles built 
by Edward I. in his effort to subdue Wales. It con- 
tests with Czirnarvon and Conway for first place 
among the Welsh ruins and is easily one of the half 
dozen most remarkable castellated fortresses in the 
Kingdom. It is perched on a mighty rock which 
drops almost sheer to the wide, sandy marsh along 
the sea, and just below it on the landward side is the 
village that gives the castle its name. Inside the 
great quadrangle, we find the trim neatness that 
characterizes the ruins belonging to the crown. We 
ascend the stairway leading to the battlements and 
follow the path around the walls and towers. A 
thousand pities that the rain shuts out the view, for 
surely there are few such panoramas of sea and 
mountain in Britain as one may get from the walls 

366 



SOME ODDS AND ENDS 

of Harlech. Shall we let one more fortunate than 
we, having seen the prospect on a cloudless day, tell 
its beauty in poetic phrase? 

"It is a scene of unparalleled beauty, whichever 
way one turns; whether to the sea, out beyond the 
sandy beach at the foot of Castle Rock, running far 
away, a sheet of intensest blue, until it meets the 
pale sapphire of the sky; or whether toward the 
mountains of the north, Snowdon, the snow-crowned 
king of them all, rising in matchless majesty above 
his satellites; or to the landward where the tiny vil- 
lage nestles at the foot of craglike hills; or to the 
westward where the great promontory of Lleyn 
stretches away, throwing here and there into the sky 
its isolated peaks, so full of savage sternness tempered 
with weird beauty." 

Verily, these misty days in Britain often hide 
visions of beauty from one's eager eyes. We will ask 
little of the story of Harlech, but it is a stirring one. 
It saw strenuous times as a stronghold of Owen 
Glendwr, who captured it in 1 404 and held it against 
the forces of Henry IV., who re-took the castle four 
years later, driving the Welsh prince into tlie moun- 
tains. Here came Margaret, the queen of the Sixth 
Henry, during the war of the Roses, and the castle 
yielded, only after a long siege, to the onslaught of 

the adherents of the House of York. Indeed, Har- 

367 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

lech was the last fortress in England to hold out for 
the Lancastrian cause. But far more memorable 
than the siege are the wild swinging cadences of the 
"March of the Men of Harlech,** to which the con- 
flict gave birth. During the civil war, the castle 
was the last in Wales to hold out for King Charles, 
and its story closes with its surrender to the army 
of the Commonwealth in 1647. 

The rain ceases shortly after we leave Harlech, 
and the air becomes clear, though the sky is still over- 
cast. It is fortunate, for we see some of the wildest 
and most impressive of Welsh scenery. Great cliff- 
like hills, splashed with red shale and purple heather 
or clad in the somber green of the pines, rise abruptly 
from the roadside. At Beddgelert the beauty culmi- 
nates in one of the finest scenes in Wales. The val- 
ley, a plot of woods and meadows, is surrounded on 
every hand by the giant hills, whose sides glow v^th 
red and purple rock which crops out among the 
scattered pines that climb to the very crests. Two 
clear, dashing mountain streams join their waters to 
form the river Glaslyn, which winds through a 
mighty gorge to the sea; and alongside the river 
runs the perfect road over which we have just been 
coursing. The Royal Goat, right by the roadside, 
invites us to pause for our late luncheon; a charming 
old-fashioned inn, odd as its name, but homelike and 

hospitable. At Beddgelert the beauty begins to fade 

368 




%l 







SOME ODDiS AND ENDS 

and one sees only commonplace country and barren 
hills until he reaches Carnarvon. 

Returning from Holyhead, we followed the 
fine coast road from Bangor to Conway, where we 
paused to renew our acquaintance with one of the 
most charming towns in the Kingdom. In many 
respects it is unique, for nowhere will one find more 
perfect relics of feudal time, or feel more thoroughly 
its spirit than at Conway. The little city still lies 
snugly behind its ancient wall, whose one and twenty 
watch towers stand grimly as of old, though shorn of 
their defenders in these piping times of peace. And 
the castle, from many viewpoints the most picturesque 
of them all, looks marvelously perfect from a little 
distance — so perfect that one could hardly wonder 
to see a flash of armor from the stately battlements. 
Yet with all its antiquity, Conway, inside its walls, 
is clean and neat and has an air of quiet prosperity. 
So widely known are its charms that perhaps it 
should have no place in this record; and yet it is 
probable that the great majority of American vis- 
itors in England never see Conway — which assump- 
tion is my excuse for a few words of appreciation. 

If there were no castle or wall, there would be 
ample warrant for coming to see one of the most 
charming Elizabethan mansions in the Island. Plas 
Mawr — the Great House — indeed deserves its 
name; a huge building of many gables, odd corners 

369 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

and stone-mullioned, diamond-paned windows. In- 
side there are great paneled rooms with richly bossed 
plaster ceilings, wide fireplaces with mantelpieces 
emblazoned with the arms of the ancient owners, 
and many narrow winding passageways leading — 
you never quite learn whither. Very appropriate is 
the ghostly legend of the house, and even more fitting 
the better substantiated story of the visit of Queen 
Elizabeth — that splendid royal traveler who might 
well be our patron saint. Stately is the great cham- 
ber, the sitting-room of the Queen's suite, with its 
paneled walls, its highly ornate ceiling, its great 
group of no less than a dozen windows; and the 
fireplace, six feet or more across, where a great log 
might be thrown to glow, a solid core of heat — fit 
indeed for the evening musings of the royal guest. 

A thorough round of Plas Mawr will serve to 
give one an appetite for luncheon at the Castle Hotel 
— at least this was the result in our particular case. 
But one would not really need much of an appetite 
to be tempted by the luncheon set forth at the Castle 
Hotel, one of the cleanest, brightest and best-ordered 
of the many inns at which we stopped in our wan- 
derings. 

In a jaunt up the Conway River, one will see 
much pleasing scenery of hill, valley and river, 
and will come at Bettws-y-Coed into the Holyhead 
road, which splendid highway we follow through 

870 



SOME ODDS AND ENDS 

Llangollen and Oswestry to Shrewsbury. This 
route abounds in interest; Chirk is famous for its 
castle and there is an ivy-covered ruin at Whitting- 
ton, but we do not pause in our swift flight for any 
of them. The sky has cleared and delightful vistas 
greet our eyes as we hasten through "the sweet vale 
of Llangollen.** We come into Shrewsbury almost 
ere we know it, and a half hour later catch sight of 
the great church tower of Ludlow town. 

A longing for a farewell glimpse of Warwick- 
shire comes upon us as we leave Ludlow on the 
afternoon of the following day; and what pleasanter 
memory could we choose for the closing days of our 
long pilgrimage in England than a flight through the 
charming country that lies at her very heart? True, 
we will pass over roads that we have traversed be- 
fore, but could one ever weary of Stratford and War- 
wick and Coventry, and of the quiet Midlands that 
lie about them? 

We pause for one last look at the cathedral 
at Worcester, its great tower of warm red stone 
standing sharp against the cloudless sky; it is alto- 
gether one of the most perfect in proportion and 
design of all the churches in the Island. Then we 
hasten through the summer landscape — its prevail- 
ing green dashed with the pale gold of the yellowing 
harvests — to Droitwich and through Alcester, with 
its dull-red brick and black-oak beams, into the now 

371 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

familiar streets of Stratford-on-Avon. We pause 
at the busy souvenir store of which two years before 
the white-haired mayor was proprietor; but he has 
since retired, his successor tells us. As one of the 
notables of the town, he points out Miss Corelli, 
the novelist, who has made her home in Stratford 
and waxed rich through much advertising, which 
sometimes assumed forms highly distasteful to her 
fellow- townsmen. For it chanced that one Andrew 
Carnegie would present a handsome library building 
to Stratford should the town provide a suitable site, 
but for some reason Miss Corelli objected, and by 
engaging the plan in some of the endless legal quib- 
bles possible in England, she defeated it. The 
mayor was vexed beyond measure and when the 
attorney for Miss Corelli interrogated him, 

**Did you not say that you would give a thou- 
sand pounds to get Miss Corelli out of Stratford?" 

**I have never said so," replied his honor, "but 
though a thousand pounds does not grow on a goose- 
berry bush for me, I really believe I would." 

This retort so irritated the authoress that she 
brought an action for libel and was awarded a 
farthing damages. But this bit of gossip hardly ac- 
cords with the spirit of Stratford at the coming of 
twilight, when the low sun flashes on the still bosom 
of the immemorial Avon and pierces the gloom be- 
neath the great trees that cluster around the church, 

372 



SOME ODDS AND ENDS 

We come here again from Coventry on the 
following day to join the worshipers in the fane 
where sleeps the Master of Enghsh Letters. It is a 
perfect day and the large light-toned windows lend 
an air almost of cheerfulness to the graceful interior 
of Stratford Church, and the great organ fills it with 
noble melody. With such surroundings, perhaps 
we miss much of the sermon — at least we can re- 
call nothing of it in the lapse of time — but the 
memories that come back to us now are of the 
mingled feelings of reverence and inspiration that 
dominated us during the hour we lingered. 

As we leave the church — our car has stood by 
the roadside the while — an intelligent little fellow 
approaches us, urging his services as guide, and he 
looks so longingly at the car that we take him in. 
In all our wanderings about Stratford, and hardly a 
highroad or byway has escaped us, we have missed 
the old cottage where Mary Arden is said to have 
lived. Is said to have lived — alas, that hypothetical 
"said" that flings its blight over so many of our 
sacred shrines. But what matters it, after all? 
What mattered it to the pious votary of olden time 
that the relics of his revered saint, so fraught with 
comfort and healing to him, turned out to be the 
bones of a goat? There shall be no question for 
us on this perfect day of English summer that the 
low gray walls and sagging dull-red tile roof of the 

373 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

cottage before us once sheltered the mother of Shake- 
speare. It stands behind a low stone wall, in the 
village of Wilmcote, two or three miles from Strat- 
ford, a blaze of old-fashioned flowers in front of it 
and creepers and rose vines clamber over its gray 
walls. It is only a farmhouse tenement now, but 
with the old buildings grouped about it and its 
dovecot, it makes a picture well suited to the glamour 
that legend throws about the place. Our small guide 
eagerly points it out and proposes to seek admittance 
for us; but we desire no such disenchantment as 
this would likely bring. We ask him to point the 
way to Shottery, for we wish a final glimpse of 
Anne Hathaway's cottage, whose authenticity is 
pnly a shade better attested than that of the home of 
Mary Arden. 

The road from Stratford to Banbury is winding 
and steep in places, and Sun-Rising Hill is known 
over the Kingdom as the most formidable in the 
Midland Country; the road climbs it in sweeping 
curves and the increasing grade brings the motor to 
"low" ere we reach the top. But the prospect which 
greets one from its summit makes the climb worth 
while, a panorama of green and gold fading into 
the purple haze of distance. The Red Lion at 
Banbury appeals to us and we rest awhile in the 
courtyard after luncheon. Along the walls directly 

in front of us, a blaze of purple bloom, stretches the 

374 



SOME ODDS AND ENI>S 
"largest wisteria in England," one hundred and 
eighty feet in length, its stem like a good-sized tree. 
It has been thus with so many of the old-time inns; 
each has had some peculiar charm. But surely no 
architect ever planned the Red Lion Inn; it is a 
rambling building that seems to have grown up with 
the years. No straight line curbs its walls; none of 
its floors maintain the same level; it is a maze of 
strangely assorted apartments, narrow, winding hall- 
ways and odd nooks and corners. 

The road we follow to Daventry is a retired 
one, very narrow and almost lost in places between 
high hedges and over-arching trees. It leads through 
quaint villages, snug and cozy among the hills, 
seemingly little disturbed by the workaday world 
beyond. What a change it is to come into the 
Holyhead road at Daventry, the splendid highway 
that charms one more and more every time he passes 
over it; and did ever anyone see it more golden and 
glorious than we as we hasten toward Coventry in 
the face of the setting sun ? The giant elms and yews 
and pines that border the road stand sharply against 
the wide bar of lucent gold that sweeps around the 
horizon, flecked here and there with purple and 
silver clouds. Soon the three slender spires of the 
old city loom out of the purple mists that hover over 
it and stand in clear outline against the sunset sky, 

a scene of calm and inspiring beauty. As we come 

375 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

nearer the shadows resolve themselves into the houses 
of the charming old town, in the heart of which we 
come to our pleasant inn. 

There is little more to be told; our second long 
pilgrimage through the sunlit fields and rain-swept 
wolds of Britain and Ireland draws near its close. 
We take our final leave of Coventry with keen re- 
gret and soon come into the Northamptonshire Hills. 
We see the Bringtons again, far more delightful un- 
der cloudless skies than in the gray summer shower 
that wrapped the little hamlets during our former 
visit. 

Beyond Northampton, a memory of Ben 
Franklin brings us to Ecton, apparently the sleepiest 
of Midland villages. We follow the straggling line 
of thatched cottages to the church, where gray 
stones with almost illegible inscriptions mark the 
graves of Eleanor and Thomas Franklin, uncle and 
aunt of one who, in some respects, was our greatest 
American. The Franklin manor house is gone and 
Benjamin himself had little to do with Ecton save 
as a visitor to his ancestral home. He relates that 
in searching the parish records he learned that he 
was the youngest son of the youngest son for no 
less than five generations — verily, genius has little 
respect for the law of primo-geniture so sacred in 
England. His grandfather, also a Benjamin, left 
Ecton for London, where he engaged in the dyer's 

376 



SOME ODDS AND ENDS 

trade and varied the drudgery of his calling by 
writing much poetry of doubtful merit. His young- 
est son, Josias, emigrated to America in 1682, and 
the rest is American history, too well known to 
need recording here. Ecton, somnolent and remote, 
seems little conscious today of the achievements 
of the mighty son of her Franklin squires of a few 
centuries ago. 

At Bedford, the brightest and most progressive- 
looking of English towns, we enter the old home of 
Howard, who civilized the prisons of the world and 
whose memory is kept green by the excellent work 
of the Howard societies of our own and other 
countries. Near at hand is the Bunyan memorial 
chapel, with many relics of the author of "Pilgrim's 
Progress.** And one is mildly astonished to see the 
collection of the works of this famous preacher and 
to note how "Pilgrim's Progress** outshone and sur- 
vived a flood of mediocre, if not stupid, theological 
writings which he poured forth. We hasten onward 
through Cambridge, and night finds us at the Angel 
in Bury St. Edmunds. Of our last day*s wander- 
ings I have already told in my chapter on East 
Anglia. 

Travel-stained but unwearied, the tried and 
trusty companion of our pilgrimage stands before 
our London hotel. It is hard to think of her — is 
the pronoun right? — as a thing of iron and steel; 

377 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

she has won a personality to us; but, metaphor 
aside, what a splendid means to a splendid end the 
motor has become! In two summers we have seen 
more of Britain than one might find it practicable 
to see in years under old conditions, and we have 
seen the most delightful, though unfamiliar, side. I 
trust that some small measure of our appreciation has 
been reflected in these pages, though I well recog- 
nize that neither the words nor the power to use 
them are mine by which there might be conveyed 
a truly adequate idea of such a pilgrimage. 



378 



XXI 

LUDLOW TOWN 

I am going to write a chapter, though it be 
a short one, on Ludlow Town, which, among the 
hundreds of places rich in historic association and 
redolent of romance that we visited in our wander- 
ings, still continues pre-eminent in our memories. 
We took occasion to pause here four or five times 
for the night, and each succeeding sojourn only 
served to heighten our appreciation of the delightful 
old town and its traditions. One will not tire of 
the Feathers Inn — surely one of the most charming 
of the very old hostelries and noted as one of the 
best preserved brick-and-timber houses in the King- 
dom. True, copious applications of black and white 
paint gives it a somewhat glaring appearance, but the 
beauty of the sixteenth century facade with its jut- 
ting gables, carved beams and antique windows, will 
appeal to the most casual beholder. The interior 
is old-fashioned, but comfortable withal, and an 
air of quiet pervades the place. It is not without a 
touch of modernity, for between our first and last 
visit gas lights superseded candles. On one oc- 
casion, when the Feathers was full, we went to the 

379 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

Angel and will not soon forget the portly Boniface 
who welcomed us: a mighty man indeed, who 
might well be the prince of inn-keepers and who 
would tip the scale at not less than twenty-five stone 
— for thus they reckon ones weight in England. 

Nothing could be more delightful on the eve- 
ning of a fine summer day than to wander about the 
town and to view the church tower and castle walls 
from different angles. Our favorite walk was over 
the castle bridge and along the river, whose waters 
beyond the weir lay broad and still, reflecting the 
gray towers far above. One will find few more 
romantic sights than the rugged bulk of Ludlow 
Castle, standing on its clifflike eminence in sharp out- 
line against the evening sky. Just beneath rise the 
ranks of stately lime trees bordering the pleasant walk 
cut in the hill slope, which falls sharply to a narrow 
bank along the river. One may complete the cir- 
cuit by following the path between the trees and 
making a rather steep descent to the road along 
the bank. 

The river above the weir is radiant with the 
reflected glories of the skies; and the rush of the 
falling water alone breaks on the evening stillness. 
We linger long; the crimson fades from the heavens 
and river, but a new, almost ethereal beauty pos- 
sesses the scene under the dominance of a full summer 
moon. The walls and towers lose their traces of 

380 



LUDLOW TOWN 

decay in the softened light, and one might easily 
imagine Ludlow Castle, proud and threatening, as 
it stood in the good old times. Did we catch a 
glint of armor on yonder grim old tower, or a gleam 
of rushlight through its ruinous windows? But our 
reverie vanishes as the notes of "Home Sweet Home" 
come to us, clear and sweet from the church tower 
chime. 

I wish I might write the fuller story of the castle, 
but its eight hundred years were too eventful for the 
limits of my book. A few scattered incidents of 
its romance are all that I may essay — and one can but 
keenly regret that Walter Scott did not throw the 
enchantment of his story over Ludlow rather than 
the less deserving Kenilworth. 

The castle was built soon after the Conquest, 
and its warlike history begins with a siege by King 
Stephen, who wrested it from its founders, the 
Mortimers, and presented it to his favorite, the 
doughty warrior, Joce de Dinan. He greatly en- 
larged and improved it, but was sorely troubled by 
Hugh Mortimer, the erstwhile lord of the castle, 
who soon made open war upon its new possessor. 
Joce was no match for his adversary in men and 
wealth, but managed to capture Mortimer by 
strategy and imprisoned him in the tower which still 

bears his name. His captivity was not of long dur- 

381 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

ation, since Joce allowed him to purchase his free- 
dom at the cost of a large part of his wealth. 

After this, according to the old chronicles, be- 
gan the bloody strife between de Dinan and the 
DeLacys over a portion of an estate in the valley of 
the Teme. Finally, after many fierce conflicts, the 
two feudal lords met face to face under the walls 
of Ludlow and engaged in deadly combat. The 
redoubtable Joce had just worsted his opponent 
when three of the latter's followers appeared on the 
scene, and finding the lord of Ludlow already wound- 
ed and quite exhausted, his defeat and even death 
at the hands of his enemies seemed imminent. From 
the castle towers his lady and fair daughters, Sybil 
and Hawyse, who had watched the fray with sink- 
ing hearts, now rent the air with their cries of despair, 
but the castle was deserted by the men-at-arms, and 
only Fulke Fitzwarrene, a youth of seventeen, who 
was considered too young and inexperienced for 
bearing arms, remained. He was of noble birth, 
lord of the manor of Whittington in Salop — and 
did we not see the ivy-clad ruin of his castle? — and 
he had been placed in the family of de Dinan to 
be trained in the noble art of warfare, the only one 
considered fit for a gentleman of those days. When 
he responded to the cries of the distressed ladies, the 
fair Hawyse, whose beauty had already wrought 

382 



LUDLOW TOWN 

havoc with the heart of the bashful Fulke, turned 
Upon him with all the fury she could summon: 

"Coward, what doest thou loitering here when 
my father, who gives thee shelter and protection, 
is being done to death in yonder valley?" 

Stung by the maiden's words, Fulke paused 
not for reply. He snatched a rusty helmet and 
battleaxe from the great hall and, no war steeds being 
in the castle, flung himself on a lumbering draught 
horse and galloped away to his patron's rescue. 
Shall we tell of his doughty deeds in the quaint 
language and style of the old chronicler? 
Jj^^i; "Fulke had a foul helmet which covered his 
shoulders and at the first onset he smote Godard de 
Braose, who had seized his lord, with his axe and 
cut his backbone in two parts, and remounted his 
lord. Fulke then turned towards Sir Andrew de 
Reese and smote him on his helmet of white steel 
that he split it down to the teeth. Sir Arnold de 
Lys saw well that he could in no manner escape, for 
he was sorely wounded and surrendered to Sir Joce. 
The Lacy defended himself, but he was soon taken. 
Now is Sir Walter de Lacy taken and Sir Arnold 
de Lys and they are led over the river towards the 
castle of Dinan. Then spoke Sir Joce, Triend 
burgher, you are very strong and valiant; and if it 
had not been for you I should have been dead before 
this, I am much bound to you and shall be always. 

383 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

You shall live with me and I will never fail you.' 
Then the lad answered and said, *Sir, I am no 
burgher, do you not know me, I am Fulke, your 
foster child.' *Fair son,' said he, *blessed be the 
time that I ever nourished you, for a man will never 
lose his labor that he does for a brave man.' " 

Surely such a gallant feat could have but one 
proper outcome and the bold Sir Fulke was soon 
married to the fair Hawyse in the beautiful circular 
chapel just built by her father and which stands 
almost intact to charm the beholder today. And 
the Right Reverend Bishop of Hereford came with 
his splendid retinue to perform the ceremony. It 
is a pity indeed that one may not close the pretty 
tale here in the happy fashion of the modern novel, 
but the wild way of the Welsh Border interferes. 

Walter de Lacy and Arnold de Lys have es- 
caped from Ludlow Castle. So great is the courtesy 
of their captor that he will not taste food until his 
guests have dined. But one day when their meal 
is ready, they cannot be found. A fair traitress in 
the castle. Maid Marion of the Heath, who has 
become infatuated with Arnold, has connived at their 
escape, though no one knows of this at the time. 

After the marriage, Joce and Fulke leave for 
a visit in Berkshire, entrusting the castle to thirty 
knights and seventy soldiers. But Maid Marion is 

ill; she remains behind, only to notify Arnold de 

384 




DOOR OF ROUND 



LUDLOW TOWN 

Lys that he will find a silken cord from one of the 
castle windows and that she will draw up a ladder 
for him to enter her chamber. He hastens to comply 
and brings at his back an hundred men-at-arms, who 
slay the sleeping knights and soldiers of the garrison 
in their beds. And Marion, when she learns of the 
tragedy the next morning, snatches her recreant 
lover's sword, thrusts him through the body and in 
her disappointment and despair hurls herself from the 
window upon the cruel rocks far beneath. 

When Joce and Fulke heard the astounding 
news, they hastened back to Ludlow and with a 
force of seven thousand men besieged DeLacy, who 
was strongly entrenched in the castle. Joce pressed 
the siege with great vigor, burning the great gate 
and making a breach in the outer walls ; and DeLacy, 
as a last resort, called upon the Welsh chieftains 
for assistance. These outlawed gentry were never 
known to let the opportunity for a fight go begging, 
and responded with twenty thousand men, forcing 
Joce to appeal to King Henry. The king, who was 
especially friendly to Joce, sent peremptory orders 
to DeLacy to evacuate the castle forthwith, which 
he did. 

But we v\all follow the traditions of the castle 

no farther. The incident related shows its wealth 

of romantic associations. Its sober history is no less 

full of interesting vicissitudes. It figured largely in 

385 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

the wars of the Roses; it was for many years the 
home of Prince Arthur, eldest son of Henry VII., 
and his early death placed the irrepressible Henry 
VIII. on the throne. For nearly two hundred years 
the castle was the seat of the Lord President of the 
Marches, and Ludlow was in a certain sense the 
capital of the border counties. In Elizabeth's time 
Sir Henry Sidney of Penshurst, father of the more 
famous Sir Philip, was Lord President, serving for 
twenty-seven years; yet he suffered from the neglect 
that the queen so often showed to her most faithful 
subjects, and near the close of his life he pathetically 
writes: 

"The Queen will not be moved to reward me. 
I have not now so much ground as will feed one 
mutton. My lady is gone v^th smallpox which she 
got by continually nursing her Majesty in that sick- 
ness. I am now fifty-four years of age, toothless and 
trembling, five thousand pounds in debt and thirty 
thousand pounds worse than at the death of my 
dear King and master, Edward VI." 

Sixty years later the Parliamentary csumon 
planted on Whitcliff, just opposite, brought the ac- 
tive history of Ludlow Castle to an end. In 1651 
it was finally dismantled; the lead and timbers were 
stripped from the roof, the mantels and furnishings 
were sold amd the fine old structure given over to 

unhindered decay for nearly two hundred years. 

386 



LUDLOW TOWN 

The fortunes of Ludlow have been closely in- 
tertwined with those of the castle. Since the fall of 
the fortress, little has happened to disturb the seren- 
ity and quietude of the town. It is prosperous today 
in a quiet way as a country market, and though it 
has many visitors, it has in no sense, as yet, become 
a tourist resort. One will find many fine buildings, 
odd nooks and comers, and very quaint streets, all 
quite devoid of any taint of modernity. The town 
is deservedly proud of its parish church — as fine, per- 
haps, as any in England. It occupies the opposite 
end of the high rock on which the castle sits and, 
after the castle, is easily the glory of Ludlow. It 
is built of red sandstone, time-stained to a dull brown, 
touched in places with silver gray ; the shape is cruci- 
form and the splendid square tower with its pin- 
nacled corners forms a landmark for many miles from 
the surrounding country. It was originally built 
about 1200, on the site of an earlier church, though 
of course the present almost perfect structure is the 
result of thorough restoration. The windows are 
unusually good, though modem, and the tower was 
rebuilt and fitted with the fine mechanical peal of 
bells that ring six times daily with a different re- 
frain for each day of the week. The tombs and 
monuments are numerous, but mostly those of old- 
time border dignitaries. 

We found much pleasure in wandering about 
387 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

the town on the morning of our last visit. The com- 
modious market-house was filled with farmers and 
their wives from the country, who offered their pro- 
ducts for seJe, and as we mingled with them we 
heard nothing spoken but English. Down toward 
the castle a curiosity shop attracted our attention; a 
brick and timber house which was crammed to the 
very garret with antique arms, armor, jewelry, china, 
glass, ivory, furniture, brass — ^but we might not 
enumerate its contents in pages. Nor was this all, 
for at a short distance an old Norman chapel had 
been leased by the proprietor and it, too, was filled 
to overflowing vsath ancient things of all degrees, 
from a spoon or cup to a massive carved-oak bed 
worth two hundred pounds. 

The shop keeper, a benevolent-looking, gray- 
bearded old gentleman, is an authority on antiques 
and shows us many curios of astonishing value. But 
his daughter is more shrewd at business. No effort 
is made to sell us anything — only to interest us — 
and the apparent honesty of the shop people spoils 
many a deal. I am desirous of some souvenir of 
Ludlow, something distinctly suggestive of the place ; 
an old sword, or pistol or what not, that might pos- 
sibly — I ask no more than possibly — ^have been used 
in the frays that once raged round the castle. There 
are ancient swords and pistols galore; but they are 
French rapiers or Scotch claymores, and though I 

388 



LUDLOW TOWN 

eagerly seek for a mere suggestion that one of them 
might possibly have come from Ludlow, I am told 
that it could hardly be; such treasures have been 
picked up long ago and should one be found it 
would command a large price. It is a disappoint- 
ment, but it gives us confidence in the purchases we 
finally make — so many, in fact, that our ready cash 
is quite exhausted; but such a trifling matter is of 
no consequence — we are perfectly welcome to take 
the goods and send the money when we reach Lon- 
don. 

"We have done considerable business with 
Americans," says the young woman. "Were you 
ever at Mount Vernon? — of course you have been. 
We supplied the antiques used in furnishing Wash- 
ington's kitchen there. One of the ladies of the 
committee happened to visit Ludlow and gave us 
the order." 

Before we finally leave the old town which has 
charmed us so much, we cannot forbear a last look 
at the castle, whose gray walls are flaunted by the 
noonday sun. We enter the wide grass-grown court; 
it is quite deserted and we make a farewell round 
of the lordly though ruinous apartments. It is the- 
day of all days for a view from the battlements of 
the keep, over which flies the red and white banner 
of St. George. We climb the shattered and some- 
what precarious stairs and behold the pleasant vale 

389 



IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND 

of the Teme, lying far beneath, every feature clear 
and distinct in the lucent, untainted summer day. 
The verdant valley, vv^ith its silvery river, its fine 
parks, its mansions, farmhouses, tovv^ns and villages, 
and the far blue outlines of the Welsh hills, make a 
scene quite too enchanting for any words of mine to 
describe. The town just outside the castle walls 
lies slimiberously below the church tower, upon 
which the great clock points to the hour of twelve; 
the bells peal forth the melody that finds a response 
always and in every heart, — doubly so in that of the 
exiled wanderer — "Home Sweet Home," and which 
never seemed to us so strong in its appeal, for we are 
to sail within the week. 



390 






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INDEX 



Abbottsford, 214. 

Abergavenny, 105-106. 

Abermaw, 365. 

Abingdon, 259. 

Aethelred, 286. 

Ailesbury Arms, Marlbor- 
ough, 275. 

Alcefiter, 137, 371. 

Aldworth, 294. 

Alfoxden House, 81. 

Alfred the Great, 58-59, 
260. 

Alloa, 227. 

Alnwick, 239-240. 

Althorpe House, 47. 

Ambleside, 184. 

"Ancient Mariner," 81. 

Angel Inn, Bury St. Ed- 
munds, 18, 377. 

Angel Hotel, Chippenham, 
260. 

Angel, The, Ludlow, 380. 

Angleseai, Isle of, 362. 

Antelope, The, Sherborne, 
63, 65. 

Appleby, 178. 

Arden, Mary, 373-374. 



Ardilaun, Lord, 346-347. 
Arthur, King, 71-75, 105- 

107. 
Arthur, Prince, 386. 
Ashford, 322. 
Ashopton, 150. 
Askeaton, 353. 
Askrigg, 195. 

Athelney, Isle of, 58, 27 9. 
Austen, Jane, 302. 
Avebury, 274. 
Avilion, 279. 
Axbridge, 58. 
Ayr, 214. 

B 

Bakewell, 144, 147-148. 
Banbury, 374-375. 
Bangor, 369. 
Bankes, Sir John, 282. 
Bannockburn, Battle of, 

222. 
Barmouth, 325, 363, 364- 

365. 
Barnard Castle, 170, 172- 

175. 
Barnsley, 252-253. 
Barnstaple, 77-79, 82. 
391 



INDEX 



Barrow-in-Furness, 185. 
Bass Rock. 230-231. 
Bath, 57, 207, 270. 
Bear Inn, Cowbridge, 113. 
Bear Inn, Devizes, 274. 
Beaton, Cardinal, 224. 
Beaulieu, 287-288. 
a'Becket, Thomas, 157, 

285. 
Beddgelert, 368-369. 
Bede, 205-206. 
Bedford, 377. 



Blue Idol, The, 307. 

Bognor, 306. 

Bolsover Castle, 157, 158- 

159. 
Bolton Abbey, 193. 
Bolton Arms, Leyburn, 244. 
Bolton Castle, 240-244. 
Borrowdale, 179. 
Bosoobel, 96-99, 136. 
Bournemouth, 276-279, 307, 

314, 318. 
Bowes, 173, 177. 



Bell Hotel, Gloucester, 87-lBownes.s, 188. 



88. 

Bell Inn, Mildenhall, 29. 

Bell Inn, Stilton, 33. 

Bell Inn, Thetford, 28. 

Berkeley, 85-87. 

"Bess of Hardwick,' 
158. 

Bethesden, 32 2. 

Bettws-y-Coed, 370. 

Beverley, 160-162, 247. 

Bexhill, 312, 318. 

Bicester, 259. 

Biddenden, 322-323. 

Bideford, 78, 79. 

Bildeston, 20. 

Birthswaite, 189. 

Birtsmorton, 128-129. 

Bishop's Castle, 363. 

Black Lion, East Linton 
231. 

Black Lion, Stockton-on- 
Tees, 169. 

Blackmore, R. D., 82. 

Blarney Castle, 338-340. 

Blenheim, 200, 275. 



Bradford-on-Avon, 270-273. 
i Bradford, William, 255. 
I Brampton, 209. 
! Brandon, Charles, 19. 
JBrantwood, 184-185. 
157- Brecon, 105, 124-126. 

Brent Eleigh, 19. 

Brewster, William, 255. 

Bridge water, 58. 

Bridgnorth, 93. 

Bridlington, 163. 

Brighton, 164, 307, 314, 
318. 

Bringtons, The, 40, 44-47, 
258-259, 376. 

Bristol, 84. 

Broadstairs, 318. 

Broadway, 52-55. 

Bromham Church, 264-267. 

Bronte Family, 197. 

Brough, 177. 

Brougham Castle, 178. 

Browning, Elizabeth Bar- 
rett, 90. 

Broxborne, 10. 

392 



INDEX 



Bruce, Robert, 222, 226. 
Buckingham, 259. 
Builth, 104. 
Buntingford, 15. 
Bunyan, John, 377. 
Burne'- Jones, 112. 
Burns, Robert, 214, 23 2- 

233. 
Bury St. Edmunds, 16-19, 

377. 
Butler, Samuel, 134. 
Buxton, 144, 148-149. 
Bwlch Ooeddrws Pass, 364. 
Byron, Lord, 151-157. 



Cader Idris, 364. 
Caedmon, 167. 
Caerleon, 105-107. 
Caerphilly, 107-109. 
Caher, 336. 
Cahersiveen, 344. 
Caister Castle, 24. 
Cambridge, 14-16, 32, 37". 
Camelford, 71, 75. 
Campden, 268. 
Canterbury, 199-200, 271, 

300, 320-321. 
Cardiff, 110-111. 
Cardigan, 121-122. 
Ca:rhan House, 344. 
Carisbrook Castle, 291-292. 
Carlisle, 206-207, 214, 243. 
Carlisle Family, 200, 209- 

210. 
Carlow, 327-329. 
Carlyle, Thomas, 17-18, 

213-214, 222. 



Carlyle, Jane Welsh, 213, 
231. 

Carmarthen, 116-117, 123. 

Carnarvon, 366. 

Carnegie, Andrew, 225-226, 
372. 

Carrick-on-Suir, 330. 

Cashel, 331-335. 

Castle Combe, 269-270. 

Castle Hotel, Brecon, 125- 
126. 

Castle Hotel, Conway, 370. 

Castle Hotel, Haverford- 
west, 116-117. 

Castle Hotel, Tamworth, 
138. 

Castle Howard, 200-202. 

Charles I., 6-7, 52, 55, 126, 135, 
291, 328, 368. 

Charles II., 10-11, 23, 96-98, 
135-136, 296. 

Chartley Castle, 140-141. 

Chatsworth, 144-146. 

Chaw ton, 302. 

Cheddar, 57-58. 

Cheltenham, 51, 55. 

Chesterfield, 144-145, 151. 

"Childe Harold," 152. 

Chillingham, 140, 238-239. 

Chippenham, 260. 

Chipping Campden, 52-54. 

Chirk, 371. 

Chollerford, 207. 

Chorley Wood, 4-6. 

Christchurch, 276. 

Cleeve Abbey, 82-83. 

Cleveland Hills, 168, 203. 
398 



INDEX 



Clifford Family, 192. 
Clive, Robert, 99. 
Clonmel, 329-331. 
Clovelly, 76-77. 
Cobbett, William, 3 23. 
Colchester, 30. 
Coldstream, 237. 
Coleridge, 81, 179. 
Colwich. 139-140. 
Coniston, 188, 194. 
Conway, 366, 369-370. 
Coolham, 307-308. 
Corelli, Marie, 372. 
Corfe, 108, 279-282. 
Cork, 327, 329, 338-339 
Corsham, 267-268. 
County Hotel, Carlisle, 211. 
Coventry, 39-40, 48-50, 136- 

137, 268, 371, 375-376. 
Cowbridge, 113-114. 
Cowdray, 304-306. 
Crickhowell, 105-106. 
Cromer, 26. 
Cromwell, Oliver, 12, 23, 

55, 66, 109, 111, 135-13F, 

241, 245, 274, 284, 327, 

328, 332, 340, 357. 
Cross Keys, Kelso, 237. 
Crown Inn, Bridgnorth, 93. 
Crown Inn, Lyndhurst, 298. 
Cruise's Royal, Limerick, 

353. 
Cuckfield, 309. 
Cupar, 221. 

Curry Rivell Church, 62-o3.i Durham 

394 



D 

Dacre Family, 209-211, 310- 
312. 

Dalton, 185. 

Darfield, 253-254. 

Darlington, 170, 240. 

Dartmoor, 68-71. 

Darwin, Erasmus, 100. 

Daventry, 375. 

David I., 237. 

"David Copperfleld," 24. 

Deane Church, 35-36. 

Deane House, 35. 

DeFoe,Daniel, 225. 

Denham, 7-8. 

Derby, 142. 

Desmond Castle, 353. 

Devizes, 273-274. 

Devonshire Arms, Wharf- 
dale, 193. 

Dickens, Charles, 17-18, 21- 
22, 23-24, 94, 172-173, 
177, 196. 

Dinas Mawddwy, 363-364. 

Dolgelley, 363-364. 

Doncaster, 159, 253-255. 

Dove Cottage, 180-182. 

Dovedale, 144. 

Dover, 315-317, 318. 

Droitwich, 137, 371. 

Dublin, 325, 326-327, 347, 
360. 

Dufferin, Lady, 325. 

Dufermline, 225-226. 

Dunster, 80-81. 

204, 299. 



INDEX 



Easingwold, 203. 
Eastbourne, 164, 318. 
East Linton, 231. 
Ecclefecham, 212-213. 
Eccles Hotel, Glengariff, 

340-341. 
Ecton, 376-377. 
Eden Hall, 178. 
Edinburgli, 214, 216-217, 

227-228. 
Edmund, King of East An 

glia, 18. 
Edward, I., 362, 366. 
Edward IV., 106. 
Edward VII., 239, 290, 346 
Edward, Prince, 89. 
Edward the Martyr, 282. 
Eliot, George, 138. 
Elizabeth, Queen, 49-50, 

158, 284, 313, 316-317 

318, 370, 386. 
Epsom, 16, 324. 
Evesham, 55. 
Exeter, 66-68. 



Fakenham, 26. 
Fairfax, General, 66. 
Farringford, 294. 
Ferrars, Earl of, 140-141. 
Feathers Inn, Ludlow, 379. 
Fermoy, 336. 
Firth of Forth, 217. 
Fishguard, 121-122. 
Fitzhardinge, Robert, 86. 
Flamborough Head, 163. 



Flodden Field, 238, 242. 
Floors Castle, 237. 
Folkestone, 314-315, 318. 
Fotheringhay, 34. 
Fountains Abbey, 187. 
Four Swans Inn, WaJtham, 

8. 
Foynes, 353. 
Franklin, Benjamin, 301, 

376-377. 
Freshwater, 293-295. 
Furness Abbey, 185-188. 



Gainsborough, 202. 

George Inn, St. Albans, 9. 

George Hotel, Buntingford, 
15. 

Glaslyn, 368. 

Glastonbury Abbey, 75. 

Glendwr, Owen, 109, 112, 
364, 367. 

Glengariff, 340-341. 

Glin, 352-353. 

Glossop, 149-150. 

Gloucester, 300. 

Godiva, Lady, 49. 

Golden Lion Inn, Barn- 
staple, 79. 

Golden Lion Inn, Leyburn, 
244. 

Grand Hotel, Folkestone, 
314. 

Grand Hotel, Tunbridge 
Wells, 324. 

Grasmere, 179-182. 

Grassington, 194. 

Gray, Thomas, 85. 
395 



INDEX 



Great Driffield, 163. 

Great Western Hotel, 
Southampton, 289. 

Great White Horse, Ips- 
wich, 21. 

Great Yarmouth, 23-24. 

Green Dragon, Hereford, 
127. 

Greenhead, 207. 

Green's Hotel, Kinross, 220. 

Gretna Green, 212. 

Grinstead, 324. 

Guisborough, 169. 

Guy's Cliff, 50. 

H 

Haddington, 231. 
Haddon Hall, 144, 146-147. 
Hadlelgh, 19-20. 
Hadrian, 207. 
Hailsham, 309. 
Hardwick Hall, 157-158. 
Harlech, 366-368. 
Harold, King, 120, 316. 
Harrogate, 188, 198. 
Hartland, 77. 
Hastings, 312, 318. 
Hathaway, Anne, 374. 
Hatton, Sir Christopher, 38, 

282. 
Haverfordwest, 116-118. 
Haworth, 196-198. 
Hawthorne, Nathaniel, 141. 
Hayward's Heath, 309. 
Hazlitt, 82. 
Hellifield, 191. 
Helvellyn, 179. 
Henry II., 157. 



Henry IV.. 242, 367. 
Henry VIII., 65, 89, 110, 

126, 156, 186, 288, 305, 

386. 
Hereford, 90-92, 127-128, 

309. 
Herstmonceux, 309-312. 
Hexham, 206-207. 
High Force, The, 173. 
High Force Hotel, 173-174. 
Holmes, Admiral, 295-296. 
Holy Cross Abbey, 334. 
Holyhead, 325, 362-3 63, 

369. 
Honiton, 67. 
"Hours of Idleness," 154- 

155. 
Howard Family, 200-202. 
Hucknall, 151-153. 
Hunstanton, 26. 
Huntingdon, 33. 
Hurst Castle, 288. 
Hythe, 3 22. 

I 
Ilchester, 63. 
Ilfracombe, 77, 79-80. 
Ilkley, 188, 198. 
Imperial Hotel, Cork, 326- 

339. 
Ipswich, 19-23. 
Irving, Washington, 1, 154- 

155. 
Isle of Wight, 289-297. 
"Ivanhoe," 246. 



James I., 66. 
"Jane Eyre," 



197. 



396 



INDEX 



Jarrow, 205. 
Jedburgh, 231-236. 
Jeffreys, Judge, 60-61. 
Jenner, Edwaird, 87. 
Jervaulx Priory, 246-247. 
Jigginstown House, 327. 
John, King, 58, 354. 
Johnson, Dr. Samuel, 141- 

142. 
Jones, Inigo, 38. 
Jones, John Paul, 163. 
Jones, Rev. Laurence, 270- 

271. 

K 

Jordans, 6, 308. 

Juxon, Bishop, 52. 

Keats, John, 293. 

Keighley, 196. 

Kelso, 237. 

Kendal, 189-190. 

Kenilworth, 39, 50, 137, 
381. 

Kenmare, 342. 

Keswick, 179-180. 

Kettle well, 194-195. 

Kildare, 359-360. 

Killorglln, 345. 

Kilkenny, 329. 

King Arthur's Castle Hotel, 
Tintagel, 72, 74-75. 

King's Arms Hotel, Ken- 
dal, 189. 

King's Head Hotel, Barn- 
ard Castle, 172-175. 

King's Head Hotel, Barns- 
ley, 252-253. 



King's Head Hotel, Coven- 
try, 39-40, 136-137. 
Kinross, 217, 220-221. 
Kirby Hall, 35-39, 305. 
Kirkcaldy, 225. 
Knaresborough, 198. 
Knox, John, 222, 224. 
"Kubla Khan," 81. 



Lacock, 261, 263. 

Laidlaw, Walter, 232-236. 

"Lalla Rookh," 265. 

Lake Side, 188. 

Lamb, Charles, 8, 82. 

Lamberhurst, 322-323. 

Lanark, 214. 

Lanercost Priory, 210-211. 

Langdale Pikes and Fells, 
179. 

Largo, 225. 

Launceston, 71. 

Lavehham, 19. 

Lawrence, Sir Thomas, 274. 

Ledbury, 90. 

Leeds, 196. 

Leicester's Hospital, War- 
wick, 50, 267. 

Leighton, 298. 

Lely, 202. 

Leyburn, 240, 243-244. 

Lichfield, 100, 139. 

Limerick, 353-355. 

Lion Hotel, Builth, 104. 

Listowel, 351. 

Little Compton Manor, 52. 

Little Woolford Manor, 51- 
52. 



897 



INDEX 



Llanaber, 365. 
Llandaff, 111-112. 
Llandrindod Wells, 103. 
Llandovery, 123-124. 
Llanfair, 363. 
Llangollen, 371. 
Llyswen, 105. 
Loch Leven, 217-220. 
London, 3, 14. 
London Hotel, Taunton, 

60-61. 
Longfellow, Henry W., 293. 
"Lorna Doone," 82. 
Lough Derg, 355. 
Louis XII. of France, 19. 
Lowestoft, 23. 
Lowwood Hotel, 183. 
Ludlow, 92, 139, 325, 363 

371, 379-390. 
Lulworth, 281-284. 
Lygon Arms, Broadway, 54 

55. 
Lymington, 287, 289, 29/. 
Lyndhurst, 298. 
Lynton, 79, 81, 82. 
"Lyrical Ballads," 81-82. 

M 

Macroom, 340. 

Maid's Head Hotel, Nor- 
wich, 25 

Malvern, 134-135. 

Maai Chester, 179. 

Mansfield, 142-144, 151. 

Margate, 318. 

Marine Hotel, St. Andrews, 
221. 

Market Drajrton, 99. 



Market Harborough, 258. 
Marlborough, 275. 
"Marmion," 138, 238, 242. 
Marney, 30-31. 
Maryborough, 3 59. 
Mary Stuart, 158, 219-220, 

242-244. 
Mary Tudor, 19. 
Melrose, 214, 231. 
Melton Mowbray, 257-258. 
Middleham, 244-246. 
Middlesbrough,, 169. 
Middleton, 174. 
Midhurst, 304. 
Mildenhall, 29. 
Millais, 298. 
Millet, F. D., 53. 
Mitchelstown, 336. 
Monmouth, Duke of, 59-60. 
Montague Faanily, 288-289, 

305. 
Montgomery, 102. 
Moore, Thomas, 264-266. 
Moran, Thomas, 73. 
Moreton Court, 128-131. 
More ton Hampstead, 68-69. 
Moreton-in-the-Marsh, 5 2 . 
Morris, Col., 250. 
Mountrath, 359. 
Muckross Abbey, 346, 348. 
Mundesley, 25, 26. 

N 

Naas, 327, 359. 
Nailsworth, 55. 
Naworth, 209-210. 
Neath, 114-115. 
Nenagh, 356-358. 



398 



INDEX 



Nether Stowey, 81. 

Neville- Family, 172. 

Newbridge, 360. 

Newcastle-on-Tyne, 204-205. 
240. 

New Forest, 287, 298-299. 

New Inn, Clovelly, 77. 

Newmarket, 11, 16-17, 99. 

Newport (Isle of Wight), 
290-291. 

Newport (S. E. Wales), 107, 

Newport (Western Wales), 
122. 

Newstead Abbey, 144, i5l, 
153-157. 

Newtown, 103. 

"Nicholas Nickleby," 173, 
177. 

Norfolk Broads, 24-25. 

Northampton, 258, 376. 

North Berwick, 228. 

North British Hotel, Edin- 
burgh, 216-217. 

Norwich, 24-26. 

Nottingham, 257. 

Nuneaton, 138. 



Oban, 341. 

O'Connell, Daniel, 344. 
"Old Curiosity Shop, 94. 
Old England Hotel, Wind- 
ermere, 183. 
O'More, Rory, 327, 328. 
Osborne House, 290. 
Oswestry, 371. 
Otley, 198. 



Oundle, 34-36. 
Oxford, 259. 



Pains wick, 55-56. 
Paine, Thomas, 28, 79. 
Park Hotel, Cardiff, 110. 
Peak District, 144. 
Penderel Family, 98. 
Penn, William, 4-6, 307- 

308. 
Penrith. 178. 
Penzance, 318. 
Percy Family, 162, 239. 
Petham, 322. 

Pier Hotel, Yarmouth, 29G. 
"Pilgrim's Progress," 377. 
Plas Mawr, 369-370. 
Plymouth, 2. 
Pontefract, 249-251. 
Porlock, 81-82. 
Portobello, 228. 
Portsmouth, 314, 318. 
Price, Sir John, 126. 
Prince Town, 68, 70. 
Purbeck, Isle of, 279-281. 



Q 

Queensferry, 217. 

R 

Raby Castle, 170-172. 
Raglan, 139. 
Raleigh, Sir Walter, 66. 
Ramsgate, 318. 
Randolph Hotel, Oxford, 
259. 
399 



INDEX 



Raven Hotel, Shrewsbury, 

99. 
Reculver, 319-320. 
Red Horse, Stratford, 39. 
Red Lion, Banbury, 374- 

375. 
Red Lion, St. Albans, 9. 
Reynolds, 202. 
Richard H., 249, 251. 
Richard IH., 106, 245. 
Richmond, 240. 
Rickmansworth, 5. 
Ringwood, 276, 287. 
Ripon, 247-249. 
Ripple, 128, 132. 
Robert, Prince, 110-111. 
Robin Hood's Bay, 165. 
Robinson Crusoe, 225. 
Robinson, Rev. John, 255. 
Rollright Stones, 52. 
Romsey, 299-300. 
Roscrea, 359. 
Ross Castle, 348. 
Rossetti, Dante Gabriel, 

112. 
Rosslyn Chapel. 214-216. 
Rougemont Hotel, Exeter, 

66. 
"Round About Papers," 

323-324. 
Royal Bath, Bournemouth, 

277-279, 346. 
Royal Goat, Beddgelert, 

368. 
Royal Hotel, Ventnor, 292. 
Rumbles Moor, 195. 
Rumsey, Ruth, 10-11. 
Ruskin, John, 184. 



Ryde, 292. 
Rydal, 179, 180. 
Rye, 292, 312-313. 
Rye House, 10-13. 
Rylstone, 193-194. 



St. Albans, 8-9. 

St. Aldhelm, 271. 

St. Andrews, 220-225. 

St. Augustine, 356. 

St. Augustine's, Canterbury, 
271. 

St. Cross, Winchester, 268, 
301. 

St. Flannati, 355. 

St. James' Church, Bury St. 
Edmunds, 19. 

St. John's Cathedral, Lim- 
erick, 354. 

St. David's, 111, 117-121. 

St. Mary's Cathedral, Lim- 
erick, 354. 

St. Mary's Church, Beverley, 
162. 

St. Maa-y's Church, Bury St. 
Edmunds, 19. 

St. Mary's Church, Scar- 
borough, 197. 

St. Mary's Church, Shrews- 
bury 144. 

St. Mary's Church, TauntOB, 
61. 

St. Mary's Church, Warwick, 
50. 

St. Mary's Church, Whitby, 
166-167. 



400 



INDEX 



St. Michael's Church, Cov- 
entry, 48. 

St. Wilfred, 248. 

Salisbury, 276, 309. 

Samdwich, 317-318. 

Savernake Forest, 275-276. 

Scarborough, 163-165. 

Scott, Sir Gilbert, 215. 

Scott, Sir Walter, 138, 228- 
230, 246, 304, 381. 

Scrooby, 255-256. 

Scrope, Lord, 242-243. 

Sedgemoor, Battle of, 59. 

Selborne, 301, 302-304. 

Selkirk. Alexander, 225. 

Settle, 190-191. 

Shakespeare, 12, 109, 180, 
199, 245. 

Shakespeare's Cliff, 316. 

Shanklin, 293. 

Sheffield, 150-151. 

Shelley, Percy B., 79, 82, 
152. 

Shelley, Mary Wollstone- 
craft, 278. 

Shenstone, William, 61. 

Sherborne, 62-66, 300. 

Sherrin, Daniel, 43. 

Shifnal, 94. 

Ship Inn, Porlock, 82. 

Shipston-on-Stour, 51. 

Shrewsbury, 72, 99-100, 
207, 371. 

Siddons, Mrs., 126, 

Sidney Family, 386. 

Skiddaw, 179. 

Skipton, 191-192. 

Sloperton Cottage, 2 64-26G. 



Snake Hotel, 150. 
Sneem, 342-343. 
Solent,' 289, 297. 
Sol way, 207, 212. 
Somerton, 63. 
Southampton, 287, 289. 
Southey, 82, 179. 
Spencer Family, 44-45, 47, 

157. 
Spenser, Edmund, 3 53. 
Staindrop, 170. 
Stanley Family, 95. 
Stanton, 128. 

Star Hotel, Worcester, IS 6. 
Station Hotel, Holyhead, 

362-363. 
Station Hotel, Newcastle- 

on-Tyne, 204. 
Station Hotel, York, 159, 

187-188, 199. 
Stephen, King, 381. 
Stephenson, George, 145. 
Stilton, 33. 
Stirling, 227. 
Stockton-on-Tees, 169-170, 

204. 
Stonehenge, 55, 274-275, 

276. 
Stowmarket, 19-20. 
Stratford-on-Avon, 39, 50- 

51, 137, 145, 371-374. 
Strensham, 128, 132-134. 
Stroud, 55-56. 
Sulgrave, 40-46. 
Swan Inn, Mansfield, 142- 

144, 151. 
Swansea, 115-116. 



401 



INDEX 



Swinburne, Algernon C, 

297. 
Swindon, 260. 



Taidcaster, 159. 

Talbot Hotel, Oundle, 34. 

Tamworth, 138-139. 

Tantallon, 228-230. 

Tarbert-on-Sbannon, 350- 
351. 

Taiunton, 58-61. 

Tavistock, 71. 

Tawstock Cburcb, 78. 

Tennyson, Alfred, 289, 293- 
295. 

Tewkesbury, 55, 88, 132. 

Tewkesbury, Battle of, 89. 

Tbackeray, William M., 3 23 
341. 

Thetford, 28. 

Tbirlmere, 179. 

Thirsk, 203. 

Tborpe, John, 38. 

Tintagel, 71-75, 77, 341. 

Tintock Moor, 214. 

Tong, 94-96, 99. 

Torquay, 318. 

Towcester, 259. 

Towton Moor, 251. 

Tralee, 348-350. 

Treaty Inn, Uxbridge, 6-7. 

Trinity Church, Chester- 
field, 145. 

Tunbridge Wells, 322-324. 

Turk's Head, Oundle, 34. 

Two Bridges Hotel, 70. 



Twyford, 300-301. 
Tynemouth, 207. 

u 

Uckfield, 309. 
Ulverston, 185, 188. 
Unicorn Hotel, Ripon, 249. 
University Arms, Cam- 
bridge, 15, 32. 
Upton-on-Severn, 134. 
Uriconium, 207. 
Usk, 106. 

Uttoxeter, 140-142. 
Uxbridge, 6. 

V 

Vanbrugh, 200. 

VanDyke, 202, 267. 

Vane Arms, Stockton-on- 
Tees, 170. 

Vane, Sir Henry, 172. 

Ventnor, 292-293. 

Vernon Family, 95, 147. 

Victoria Hotel, Cheltenham, 
55. 

Victoria Hotel, Great Yar- 
mouth, 24. 

Victoria Hotel, Killarney, 
345-346. 

Victoria, Queen, 290. 

Victoria Hotel, Nottingham, 
257. 



w 

Wakefield, 251-252. 
Wakes, The, Selborne, 30! 
Waltham, 8. 
402 



^ 



>^(V 



:!A 



FKJ 






V. 



INDEX 



Wareham, 284. 
Warmingliurst, 307, 308. 
Warwick, 39, 50, 137, '^6S, 

371. 
Washington Family, 40-47. 
Watson, Williaim, 302, 302. 
Watts, George Fredierick, 

233. 
Wells, 57. 

Wells-Next-the-Sea, 26. 
Welshpool, 102, 363. 
Weston-Super-Mare, 84. 
Wharf dale, 193. 
Whitby, 165-168, 174. 
White, Gilbert, 302-304. 
White Hart Inn, Launces- 

ton, 71. 
White Hart Inn, Taunton, 

60-61. 
White Ladies, 99. 
William Rufiis, 298-299. 
William the Conqueror, 120. 

189, 306. 
Wimborne Minster, 284-287. 
Winchelsea, 312. 
Winchelsea F'aimily, 38. 



Winchester, 268, 288, 301. 
Windermere, 182-183, 1S8, 

189. 
Wishart, George, 224. 
Wolsey, Cardinal, 130-131. 
Wolverhaimpton, 101. 
Worcester, 131, 135-136. 
Wordsworth, William and 

DoTothy, 81, 179-182, 

190, 194, 215. 
Worksop, 159. 
Wormleighton,, 41. 
Worthing, 306-307. 
Wyatt, 309. 
Wymondham, 27-28. 

Y 

Yarm, 204. 

Yarmouth, 289, 295-296. 

Yatton Keynell, 268. 

Ye Ancient House, Ipswich, 

22-23. 
Yeovil, 63. 
York, 159, 187-188, 198- 

200, 207, 247, 248. 



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